


A Frightful Notion of Self

by Toomanytears



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arguing, Auror Harry Potter, Blood Bond, Case Fic, Cults, Duelling, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Food, Godparent Harry Potter, H/D Erised 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Mystery, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry Potter, POV Harry Potter, Politics, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn, Terrorism, Undercover Missions, Violence, hidden agendas, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21902932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toomanytears/pseuds/Toomanytears
Summary: The Second Wizarding War of Great Britain brought with it great grief and strife, leaving government schisms and nationwide panic about the prospect of a repeat of such atrocities in its wake. When changes to the Auror force are proposed, what appears to be a political issue unfurls to reveal a more sinister plot in which Harry and Draco have been caught. Will they be able to set aside their childhood rivalry or will their mission to discover the truth about a cultish blood bond organisation divide them?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 207
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	1. Vergangenheit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WielkiOgien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WielkiOgien/gifts).



> Hello to everyone (yes, you!) and happy holidays! I'm so delighted to be taking part in this exchange. I've read Erised fics for years and years and am annually thrilled by the heart-breaking, exquisitely-written, imaginative fics that are shared to the fandom by the fantastic authors that get involved. And now I can count myself among them! I would like to thank my beta M for her words of encouragement and invaluable advice. I would like to extend an enormous thank you to the absolutely terrific, diligent and generous mods who organised this exchange. I truly appreciate your patience and professionalism, especially as I wrote the last few chapters while I was going through a rough patch in my life. I truly hope my wonderful recipient likes this fic - I tried to include everything you asked for and made sure that this was primarily a plot-heavy case fic with some steamy romance intertwined. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy it!

“Don’t you think you’re being a little rash, Harry?” Hermione asked gently.

“There’s something new,” Ron said, settling three overflowing Butterbeers on the circular table. “Who would expect Harry of all people to do something rash?”

“I’m not being rash,” Harry said, a flare of irritation in his chest. He took a hearty swig of Butterbeer and sighed. “I’m being cautious.”

“Cautious?” Hermione repeated warily. “Harry, I’m worried that you’re being overly suspicious. It’s really not warranted in this case.”

Harry watched a sliver of moonlight seep through the gap in the curtains and catch the photographs along the mantelpiece: Ron and Hermione’s wedding day the previous June, both waving merrily; Ron holding his new-born niece, Victoire Weasley, in his freckled, lightly-scarred arms; Hermione and her parents upon the launch of their new dentistry clinic in Perth, Australia; Fred Weasley in the field outside the Burrow, his face lit up with excitement and Filibuster’s Fireworks in both hands.

Harry shook his head. “It is warranted,” he said fiercely. “I don’t trust anyone in the International Wizarding Confederation.”

Hermione tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fixing Harry with a piercing stare. “Harry, you’re jumping to conclusions. There’s going to be serious, rational debate presented from top academics and politicians around the world at the IWC assembly. At the very least, it’s democratic.”

Harry shook his head. “But they’re all talk, Hermione,” he insisted. “They’ve made up their minds that they’re going to let this Act pass. No number of speeches and conferences is going to change that.”

Hermione pulled her wand swiftly out of her pocket and jabbed it sharply in the direction of the kitchen. Instantly, a toppling pile of papers, neat but precarious, zoomed into her outstretched palm. She began to read aloud, her tone slightly weary.

“The International Wizarding Confederation’s 2003 assembly will prioritise the consideration of the adoption of the Regulation of Auror Licences, Authorisation and Combat Powers Act. This act proposes to,  _ inter alia _ , give the Auror forces in each member state vastly increased powers of surveillance, full and legal use of the Fatal, Mind-Altering and Related Curses, and diminished accountability to the Ministry of the member state. The aim of the act is to homogenise the standard of the Auror forces and powers of all member states, control the proliferation of the Dark Arts and its users, and protect the international wizarding community.

“It must be noted, however, that the passage of this act requires almost unanimous support. Seven eights of the IWC delegates —that is, 153 of the 175 delegates—and all twelve members of the International Wizengamot Court would need to vote in favour of this act for its successful implementation.” Hermione placed the sheet of parchment back on the stack and heaved it onto the floor with a rather satisfying  _ thump _ .

“Mind translating all that for us, ‘Mione?” Ron said, wearing a bemused expression.

Hermione sighed. “Briefly, it means that despite how substantial these changes to the Auror services in every country with a wizarding government  _ sound _ , they’re highly unlikely to be implemented. Which means,” she said, looking pointedly at Harry, “you’re being paranoid. Nothing of concern has happened yet. We don’t even know how the IWC assembly will proceed, let alone what the outcome might be.”

“Yes we do,” Harry said angrily, managing to slop Butterbeer down his jumper in his haste to slam the glass down. “Everyone at DMLE has already started getting ready for the changes. They’re disbanding the oversight committee, holding meetings with Unspeakables to get rid of records, setting up surveillance points all over Diagon Alley and in Hogsmeade. It’s already happening, Hermione!”

“Hang on,” Ron said, glancing at Harry and only looking mildly affected by his outburst. “This Act is supposed to give the Aurors more powers, mate. Surely that’s a good thing, right? Less oversight, less administration, less paperwork. Doesn’t sound half bad to me.”

Harry snatched the sheet of paper and pointed his wand at it furiously. “’Full and legal use of the Fatal, Mind-Altering and Related Curses’, Ron. It means we’ll be legally able to use any Unforgivable Curse, like a fucking licence to kill and we won’t even be held accountable for it. There’ll be Aurors tracking every person in the magical world, watching them and what they do and where they go. It’s the opposite of democracy, Hermione.”

She stood up sharply, glowering. “I never said that the proposed practices permitted by the act would be democratic, Harry. I said that the process of the IWC assembly to consider adopting it would be.”

Ron leaned over and rubbed the small of her back. She turned to glance at him and Harry caught a gentle, almost indulgent smile spread across her face. She fell back into her armchair with a sigh.

“And for the record,” she added earnestly, “I completely agree with you that such authorisation would be entirely authoritarian. I just don’t think that seven eights of delegates will disagree with me.”

“Not sure any of them would bother trying to,” Ron muttered. He suddenly looked up at Harry, however, a small frown on his face. “So do you know what countries have agreed to the act in advance? Don’t the other Aurors know about this kind of thing?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, scrubbing his chin and noting that he needed a shave. It had been an exhausting day and his appearance was the least of his concern. “So far, something like one hundred and ten have said they’re definitely going to agree. And every single other country had shown some kind of support for it.”

“But none of the members of the International Wizengamot Court have said anything,” Hermione said quickly. “None at all. They have to remain completely impartial until the official proposition of the act.”

Harry sighed and took a large swig of his Butterbeer, revelling in the comforting, warming sensation it left him with.

“But I doubt all of the IWC members actually agree,” Ron said, glancing at Hermione. “I mean, the vote’s anonymous, right? They might just say they agree now and vote the opposite way so that they won’t be, you know, targeted or manipulated before the vote.”

“An excellent point, Ron,” Hermione said fervently.

Ron grinned.

Harry scowled at him. “I know that, alright?” he said testily. “But that doesn’t guarantee anything.”

“And neither do the rumours circulating the DMLE, Harry,” Hermione said. “I’m not telling you how to do your job, Harry, but just don’t be rash.”

“Rash about what?” Ron said.

Hermione turned around, her tone disbelieving. “Have you been listening to a word we’ve been saying?”

“Yes!” Ron said, indignant. “But I was also being a very good host and getting the Butterbeers too.”

Hermione pressed her lips in a thin, inscrutable line.

“I’m proposing that we increase security at the IWC assembly,” Harry said blankly.

“Which is perfectly fine,” Hermione said. “But we  _ know _ you, Harry.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said, smiling in an apologetic sort of way. “‘Increasing security’ in your vocabulary means ‘Harry Potter, Auror Extraordinaire to the rescue, preferably with a back-up team which includes more people he hopes to save in the process’.”

“We just don’t want you to assume the worst about a situation all the time,” Hermione added in response to his outraged expression.

“Hermione, that’s my job,” he muttered angrily, draining his glass. He ignored the comment about his fetish for saving people, jokes about which he had endured from his friends for the five years since the war had ended. “This assembly is going to be the target of every Dark witch and wizard if they want to stay out of Azkaban. It’s going to need the highest security team to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Hermione watched him for a moment, her eyes narrowed very slightly. “Just don’t let your opposition to the Act blind you, Harry.”

*

Five years and five months had passed since the Second Wizarding War. The aftermath had been indescribably horrific —the grief, the sorrow, the loss of friends and family, the destruction of the first place Harry had called home and the utter aimlessness. It had left Harry with a deep, writhing sense of futility, of defeat; a lingering thought that nothing could ever be right or just or complete again.

It had taken Harry months to even begin to untangle his feelings and share his story with his loved ones. They had deserved closure and completeness and, though it had taken time and probing and gut-wrenching sobbing, Harry had provided it.

Then came the Death Eater Trials in the autumn, which had demanded Harry’s dedication and attentiveness and tested his patience. He had provided testimony for most of the Death Eaters put on trial, but the only cases in which he had defended the accused had been for Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. To national shock and dismay, he had insisted that both had been unwilling participants, that they had acted under coercion and threat of death and that their actions—Narcissa’s protection in the Forbidden Forest and Draco’s in Malfoy Manor—provided sufficient evidence to prove their remorse. The Wizengamot, surprisingly, agreed. Both were excused time in Azkaban and ordered to pay for repairs at Hogwarts, as well as making a sizeable contribution to various charities and organisations that promoted equality for wizarding folk of any and all blood status. 

The verdict had been widely considered too lenient but, with time, the Malfoys were treated with less outright disdain and more wary distance. What had annoyed Harry most distinctly, however, was Malfoy’s complete lack of gratitude. Where Narcissa had written to him, thanking him and promising him an unpaid debt, Draco had sent him a curt note one week after the verdict, requesting his wand. 

Harry had taken a few months to succumb to the grief, to let himself inhabit it rather than smother the feelings that inched their way up his throat, leaving his feeling drowned. But afterwards, and with weekly visits to Mind Healers at St Mungo’s, the constant grief had subsided. He could think of Fred and Remus and Tonks now without feeling like hurling the nearest object at a wall or drowning himself in Firewhiskey. He could think of them with fondness, with a smile; he could reminisce on them with a whimsical smile, with laughter, with a shared memory and a toast dedicated to them.

The guilt still welled deep inside him, but it was manageable now that he was able to follow his Mind Healers’ instructions to control his feelings; to acknowledge that he wasn’t to blame; that he was the most important piece in a game to which he had not been privy.

Ron had spent six months as an Auror before deciding that his brother’s shop would be a more worthwhile place to focus his efforts and he had thrown himself into work at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Hermione, too, had found great fulfilment in her work at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which she had renamed the Department for Inter-Species Relations and the Promotion of Habitat and Employment Welfare, with two sub-divisions for Inter-Species Equality and Endangered Species Protection. Though the year there had been successful, Hermione had confessed that her interests were so diverse that she wouldn’t be able to commit to the Department for any longer. Afterwards, she chose to join The European Arithmancy Society, where she taught, researched and wrote for a venerable monthly publication.

It had not been perfect, but fractured and challenging, but Harry no longer felt like there was a constant burden on his shoulders. He dedicated huge amounts of time to his work, made sure to spend time with Teddy every weekend, and made sure that he, Ron and Hermione always allotted time for each other, despite their busy schedules. It was manageable, Harry felt, and he was beginning to truly understand the words his Mind Healer was fond of ‘unsteady but ever-forward progress’.


	2. Díoltas

The first thing that Harry registered upon his arrival at the International Wizarding Confederation assembly was the sheer magnitude of the building. With the Ministry of Magic underground and its exterior appearance unknowable, Harry had never given the size much thought. Standing in a sophisticated suburb of Madrid, the IWC headquarters gleaming proudly in the sunlight, Harry was momentarily silenced.

“Alright, Potter?” Emory McNeil, Harry’s Auror partner, asked jovially.

Harry nodded at McNeil, taking in the magnificent mauve building, the neatly trimmed hedges and blossoming bouquets in the window baskets. There was a very peculiar assortment of vehicles in the front driveway. Parked there were Muggle cars, what looked to be the French equivalent of the Knight Bus, three Thestrals, two very long, family-sized broomsticks that hovered three feet above the ground and twelve flying carpets that kept escaping their restraints.

They followed the gently winding gravel path up to the enormous doors, where they could see an entrance area flooded by chattering witches and wizards. The utmost level of security had been provided by the British Ministry of Magic for the event, as per Harry’s insistence and Robards’ acquiescence. Along with him and McNeil, twelve other Aurors—more than the DMLE could afford, really—would be provided at various stages over the course of the day. Though general security work was something far beneath his rank and Harry’s preference lay in crime solving and investigatory work, something about the nature of this assembly had struck a chord with him. He knew with absolute certainty that his concern would prove to be necessary; an event like this would surely be a prime target for retaliation by Dark Arts groups seeking to disrupt the passage of the act.

“Merlin, they look ridiculous,” McNeil said under his breath as a group of wizards dressed in dress robes that looked as though hundreds of national flags had been haphazardly sewn together passed.

Harry made a noise of vague affirmation, venturing further into the entrance area. The sound of a string orchestra filled the air here, not quite drowned by the sound of the crowd. Harry took his station in the upper west wing of the room, carried out a cursory survey of the room and cast a couple of Detection Charms for any immediate threats. Though the spells were unspecific and, with minor charmwork someone could conceal a Dark object they were carrying, Harry had never excelled at the more detailed detection charms; they were McNeil’s speciality.

A grating voice, as though the wizard hadn’t quite learned how to cast a Sonorus Charm, rang around the entrance area. “Witches and Wizards of the International Wizarding Confederation and International Wizengamot Court, please make your way to the chamber to initiate the assembly and begin proceedings in a timely manner. Thank you.”

Relieved, Harry found that he didn’t stick out in the mass of colourful robes and ostentatious decorations of the delegates. His bottle green Auror uniform, in fact, looked rather drab and plain in comparison to the exquisite oranges, ambers, clarets and indigoes talking animatedly around him. Harry cast his eye around the crowd, who were jostling slightly in their bid to get to the chamber, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary—someone lingering, perhaps, or people speaking in low voices, looking anxious or wary—but there was nothing of note.

Finally, they made it to the tall, oak doors leading to the chamber, a dome-like room with tapestries depicting herds of centaurs and native Spanish magical creatures arched to fit the curve of the ceiling. Rows of benches encircled the room, each seat adorned with a placard reading the country to which the witch or wizard sitting there belonged. Bright, intrusive lights beamed down on a row of twelve seats draped in fine satin where the Wizengamot members sat, most of them ancient, austere and impatient, shuffling their papers unnecessarily.

Harry took his position behind the Wizengamot members and signalled to the other five Aurors in the chamber, the rest presumably patrolling outside, in the balconies and the restrooms. Not ten minutes later, the entirety of the IWC delegates were seated and a muffled hush fell over the chamber.

A witch with a severe expression and perfectly groomed grey hair stood at the Wizengamot bench and the chamber was plunged into silence. Harry could see that each and every gaze was directed towards her, some with apprehension, others with anticipation.

“Witches and wizards of the world, we are gathered this pleasant morning with only one significant item on the agenda: the passage of the Regulation of Auror Licences, Authorisation and Combat Powers Act 2003.” She spoke with an accent, pronouncing her vowels heavily and enunciating each word with exactness. “I needn’t remind you all that the passage of this act would not only have huge consequences, but would result in retaliation of the highest degree in the immediate aftermath. We as a wizarding community, however, must not be daunted nor should we bow to the whims of the few when the safety of the many is at stake.”

Harry saw her glance between her colleagues, a resolute glint in her eye.

“In front of you lies a series of academic arguments for and against the implementation of this act. We will hear from both sides momentarily.”

The following four hours were some of the more gruelling and tedious of Harry’s life, and that was saying something because he had sat through numerous History of Magic exams. The academics, whose names Harry vaguely remembered from reading files in preparation for their security operation, spoke with a dull cadence that could rival that of Professor Binns. Judging from the keen nodding and note-taking from the rest of the delegates, however, their arguments spoke to many of them. Harry found his concentration wavering around one o’clock, remembering the coffee and cheese pastry he’d eaten that morning and vaguely wondering when lunch—or any kind of respite, really—would be announced. It was then, however, that the wizened academic who had been reciting statistics finished his speech and strolled from the podium with a decisive applause echoing through the chamber.

Harry caught McNeil’s gaze across the chamber and noticed that McNeil had attracted the attention of quite a few delegates standing in his immediate vicinity, many of whom were waving coyly and shooting suggestive smiles in his direction. Harry rolled his eyes and forced his concentration upon the Wizengamot witch who had resumed her position at the podium, her stack of papers taller than before, the fresh ink catching the light.

“We at the Wizengamot have, after careful consideration, reached a unanimous decision. Now,” she said, flicking her wand, “the delegates must reach theirs, keeping both the consensus of their country and the wellbeing of their people in mind. The votes will be cast and counted as soon as the final ballot has been drafted. _Fiat justitia, pereat mundus._ ”

Silent commotion ensued around the chamber. A piece of parchment and pre-inked quill had appeared along the rows of benches beside every delegate and the placards that had been black in colour switched to a shade of red. Harry cast his eye—astute, watchful, prepared—around the chamber.

Everyone seemed to be concentrating on the parchment in front of them, reading the conditions and preparing to cast their votes. Everyone, that was, except for two people sitting on opposite sides of the chamber. Harry wouldn’t have spotted them had one of them—the Northern Irish delegate—not dropped his quill and began shuffling around, trying to find it beneath the bench. It would have been a perfectly innocuous thing for any Muggle-born to do, especially one that hadn’t quite grown accustomed to whipping out their wands for any menial task, but something told Harry that this was more than a mere accident. This was coordinated; a sign, perhaps. And the very second that the man looked up, his gaze stopped on the woman staring at him from across the chamber.

Harry slipped his wand out of his pocket with practiced delicacy, prepared and anticipating either of them to make the first move. He had been chastised too many times from Robards for initiating first that he wouldn’t make the same mistake this time.

The woman, Harry noticed, had paid her piece of parchment little attention. It lay limp in her left hand while her right, from Harry’s angle at least, was out of sight. Harry’s heart began to race, expectation thrumming inside him, his skin alight and _Protego_ on his tongue. His gaze shifted between the two of them and, very quickly, the woman nodded. The nod was almost imperceptible but Harry caught it.

In an instant, and with startling uniformity, every single delegate picked up their quill and signed their vote. Within seconds the delegate signs had turned a shade of green, bright and deceiving.

Harry stepped forward, his wand out and raised. Nobody turned to face him. All of them, he realised frantically, had a dazed look about them, their expressions suddenly mild. All, that was, except for the Northern Irish man and the woman, whose placard he couldn’t make out.

Harry’s heart thundered in his chest. What had happened? He hadn’t seen either of them cast a spell, hadn’t seen their lips move, hadn’t even glimpsed a wand being withdrawn. Frantic and desperate for some kind of indication of what he ought to do next—was cursing them both too rash? —Harry caught McNeil’s eye across the room. McNeil had abandoned his usually relaxed demeanour and was nodding ardently at Harry, his wand clutched in his hand.

In unison they sent Stunning Spells at the witch and wizard but, contrary to what either expected, the spells didn’t hit either of them. Instead they rebounded with startling speed. Harry swerved to dodge the bright light zooming towards him, avoiding it by a mere millimetre.

Harry could hear the voice of the Wizengamot witch behind him, but it was slow and dazed, as though caught in a kind of trance.

“I am delighted to announce that the result of the vote has been reached and that the Regulation of Auror Licences, Authorisation and Combat Powers Act 2003 has failed by a unanimous vote. It is with satisfaction that I reinstate the present Auror programmes internationally with no changes applied whatsoever.”

Harry’s head was spinning; the act had failed. Whatever spell had been cast on what seemed to be the majority of delegates had apparently forced them to oppose the proposed changes. It didn’t make any sense. Surely they’d want to implement them, ensure full support and maximum security. Unless, a petrified voice provided in his head, they were in league with Dark wizards who wanted minimal disruption to their illegal dealings.

There was a round of pounding applause but Harry couldn’t focus on the daze-like state of the other delegates. They seemed to be in no immediate danger but the witch and wizards, he noticed, had joined in with the clapping, their eyes fixed on each other’s.

There were more Aurors weaving through the benches now, some looking puzzled, others anxious. None of them had been provided with even a basic protocol on how to handle a situation like this. But Harry knew that he couldn’t stand by passively and let this unfold before his eyes; he needed to act.

The chatter had filled the room again but it was eerily coordinated, the sound erupting at the same time. Everyone seemed to speak with the same blank tone, as though their words were dissociated from their thoughts.

Then, quite suddenly, he saw the witch get up from her seat. She looked tellingly tense but otherwise unaffected. As she discarded her quill, parchment and placard, Harry caught a glimpse of the word ‘Austria’.

Harry had hoped that something about it would ring a bell, would give him some kind of indication about her motives or her origin, but he came up frustratingly blank. He couldn’t very well assign her a motive. And why would Austria of all places oppose the proposed Auror changes? They had one of the strongest Auror departments in the world; surely increased powers would only give them a more impressive reputation. It made no sense and Harry couldn’t fathom why these two delegates had launched such a furtive attack. But understanding could wait.

Keeping his footsteps light and his wand raised, Harry walked out until he was standing by one of the dazzling lights near the centre of the cavernous room. He could make out the Austrian witch’s quick strides as she clambered down from the bench but, at once, every other delegate followed her example. A group of wizards strode out into the centre, right in front of Harry. She shouldered past them angrily, eyes fixed upon the witch.

Harry flicked his wand, preparing for the spell to rebound this time, and muttered, “ _Expelliarmus_.”

The witch lurched slightly, as though her wand had tried to escape her grip but she could tamper down its urge of her own accord.

Harry gritted his teeth, nodding at the Aurors that caught his eye in turn. At once, they all shouted “ _Expelliarmus_!”

The crowds were thickening now and Harry had to physically push people out of his path to keep the Austrian witch in his line of sight. He could see that McNeil was far closer to her, could see his mouth moving rapidly, his wand flicking feebly but nothing seemed to affect her.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he felt the gaze of someone hostile. The Northern Irish delegate was staring at him, his face twisted into an ugly smile. Harry’s footsteps quickened, his breaths coming shallow and quick.

There was something curious in the connection between the witch and wizard that Harry couldn’t place his finger on, but that he knew with absolute certainty that it could only mean bad news. Turning his attention back to the witch, Harry thought that, if he couldn’t attack her, he could very well impede her path before she reached the Northern Irish delegate.

As though another Auror had read his mind, huge stone walls erupted from the ground nearest to the witch, tripping a few of the other delegates and sending them sprawling.

Harry caught her intent concentration flicker for a moment and striked before she could regain her composure. “ _Incarcerous_!” he shouted.

But barely a second after the thin ropes had shot out from his wand tip, Harry felt a searing, excruciating pain in his chest. It felt as though the oxygen in his lungs had been replaced by something metallic and choking. He felt his eyes water, his throat close over. Harry vaguely registered falling to his knees as he desperately tried to gulp down the air around him but all he could feel was heavy dizziness.

A voice, loud and defiant, rang through the air. The only thing that Harry could properly describe it was furious.

“Do not attack if you know what’s good for you! Leave the inevitable to unfold and nobody will be hurt!”

In an instant, the thick substance that had filled Harry’s lungs vanished. There were people crowded around him, above him, but he sucked in sharp, desperate breaths and rose to his feet.

There were voices now, spells shooting above him, colliding with delegates after bouncing off the walls.

“I said do not attack!” the voice—the Northern Irish delegate, Harry saw—shouted. “It is for your benefit, we promise! Do not retaliate against the helping hand!”

Harry glanced around frantically and spotted the Austrian witch swiping furiously to rid her path of the conjured walls. Her expression was livid as more and more walls kept appearing. The Aurors surrounding her—of which there were at least six—were closing in and Harry darted past the crowd in his bid to follow them.

The walls were rising on every side of the witch, she was disappearing behind them, they had managed to trap her. Before Harry dared even sigh with relief, an almighty scream rang sharp and shattering through the chamber. Only the Aurors seemed to be affected by it; Harry could see their faces contort, could spot their hands cover their ears. It had been the second’s delay that the witch had needed.

The walls, previously high and insurmountable, had been annihilated with a meagre flick of the Austrian witch’s wand. Great slabs of stone shot out in every direction as though they had been fired from a cannon. A blinding blue light somewhere further away from the witch—closer to where the wizard was, Harry belatedly realised—was emitted and there was a gut-clenching thump. Harry saw at least ten people hit directly with the blue, glimmering light fall with an inhumane thump to the cold tiled floor.

The slabs of stone collided with everything and everyone in their path, but the other delegates were painfully oblivious. Harry could see Aurors directing the slabs away from inflicting harm but there was only one ringing thought on his mind, fervid and singular: he had to catch them before it was too late.

The witch had escaped the confinement of the walls and was racing through the crowd. He chased her, swerving past bodies and dazed-looking delegates, gaze intent and wand outstretched. He could feel that his palms were clammy and his grip unsteady around his wand but he didn’t have time to consider it.

“ _Stupefy_! _Incarcerous_! _Expelliarmus_!” Harry bellowed, watching as the spells bounded away from her upon impact, the way she darted side to side almost artfully. The other delegates dodged dutifully out of her way and, in the process, blocked Harry’s aim. His heart was racing now, his mind reeling. How was she deflecting his every spell? How was she controlling the actions of every other delegate without so much as a flick of her wrist?

It was then that Harry saw the Northern Irish man, who was utterly ignoring Harry, staring instead at the woman rushing towards him. His arm was outstretched and hand clutching a large white mug. A Portkey. Harry’s heart jolted in his chest. He could see McNeil closing in on them, preparing to jump for the Portkey too before what seemed to be a gust of wind swept over McNeil and every delegate in his vicinity, knocking them to the ground.

“ _Sequime_!” Harry bellowed, watching the charge of purple light hit the wizard. A weak tracking spell, and one that the wizard could surely repel, but it didn’t look as though he had noticed.

Harry’s heart felt as though it was going to escape his chest, which was constricted beneath his Auror robes. They were about to escape and there was nothing—nothing—he could do.

“ _STUPEFY_!” Harry shouted, shoving past a group of delegates who were facing him and crowding on top of one another to deter him. The spell didn’t make contact, however. He could make out a faint glow, could see the wizard raise his wand and saw the spell ricochet off the wall.

A piercing sound caught Harry’s attention and he startled, wand raised. Before he could even consider what the witch had done, the ceiling above them exploded violently, rubble and debris falling and smashing in the bare place at the centre of the chamber where Harry had been only seconds before. Screams and panicked shouts filled the air, ringing in Harry’s ears.

“ _Immobulus_!” he shouted, just as he heard another person—a woman by the sound of the voice—shouted the same spell. Smoke, thick and heavy, was distorting Harry’s view. He could make out colours and patterns, could see people dashing away from the rubble in his immediate vicinity, but he couldn’t make out any of the other Aurors.

Harry rushed into the centre of the chamber and spotted McNeil, his wand raised, guiding the fallen debris into a pile away from the witches and wizards. Loud, unanimous popping sounds filled the air; everyone was Disapparating.

Eyes darting around him, Harry desperately searched for the witch and wizard but knew that it was no use. They, too, had disappeared.


	3. Luz

“Case FEL1CS, henceforth known as the Felix case,” Robards said, flicking his wand to levitate a modest stack of files over his head and in front of Harry, “began two days ago on the ninth of September 2003, when an attack was launched upon the IWC assembly and Auror retaliation proved ineffectual. Twelve delegates dead and forty seven injured, thirty of whom are expected to make a full recovery. Three Aurors in the chamber itself were minorly injured and every Auror was unaffected by the otherwise assembly-wide Imperius-like Curse cast by the attackers in question.”

Harry sighed and sifted through the opening pages of the stack, finding files on the two politicians—Malachy Lynch and Carina Wimmer—as well as Auror reports detailing the attack and Healer reports translated poorly from Spanish with charts and statistics that Harry didn’t understand. He sighed and shut the topmost file; Robards usually summarised a case better than a pile of paperwork ever could.

It had been two excruciatingly slow days since the attack at the International Wizarding Confederation assembly in Spain and Harry had thought of little else since then. He had wanted to gather a team of Aurors five minutes after the chamber had been evacuated and all of the British Aurors had returned to London but wiser (and more senior) heads had prevailed. Robards had insisted that they needed time to collect case materials and assess the delegates who had been injured and killed for evidence.

“How did they get away with this?” Harry asked. “How did two people manage to _Imperio_ over a hundred? How did Lynch and Wimmer even join ranks to begin with?”

Robards peered at him, his mouth set in a firm line, his fingertips pressed together in a steeple. “I’m afraid your questions only touch the tip of the iceberg in this case, Potter.”

“Well, the motive is clear,” Harry said irritably. “Lynch and Wimmer wanted to prevent the Act to protect the Dark wizards in their own countries. I just can’t see how they managed to cast a spell that strong right under our noses.”

“Unfortunately, you would be wrong on that account,” Robards said wearily.

“How?” Harry said, fixing Robards with a stare.

“Their motives weren’t that straightforward,” Robards admitted quietly. “Their backgrounds tell us quite a lot, actually. Malachy Lynch is the twin brother of international Quidditch player Aidan Lynch. They were orphaned as children and raised by Muggle relatives in a climate of panic and extreme sectarian violence in Northern Ireland. Being taken away to Hogwarts afforded them an escape from the violence there and both young wizards cherished magic like nothing else. The Lynch brothers are enormous supporters of the peace process in Northern Ireland and the Muggle Good Friday Agreement. Lynch is very outspoken about the preservation of the proper political process in the Northern Irish branch of the Ministry of Magic. As we understand it, his motive for this attack was quite a paradox: to prevent further violence there. He wanted an end to corruption and schisms in government circles and, most importantly, the threat of retaliation from such an Act.”

Harry let out a low whistle, his mind racing. He couldn’t fathom how someone with such sincere, justified convictions could launch such a deadly attack. And the thought that Lynch too had been in a similar position to Harry left him feeling unsteady and desperate to find something—anything—to distract himself.

“Hold on,” Harry said. “If he wanted to prevent violence, why would he retaliate like that? His curses were fatal,” he added sharply.

“I’ll get to that,” Robards said patiently. “As you should already know, Carina Wimmer was the other attacker. Austria has the strongest and best trained Auror force in the world. Wimmer’s motive was quite plain: prevent a Auror-staged coup d'état at all costs and keep their equivalent of the DMLE accountable. The Austrian Aurors are strong, publicly celebrated, semi-independent and highly skilled; given the level of power that the act proposed, it would be inevitable for them to launch at takeover of the Austrian Ministry.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face viciously. “Fine. We have motives, but that doesn’t vindicate either of them. What about _how_ they did it? They couldn’t have naturally possessed that much magical ability without some level of Dark magic involved. And what about Lynch’s change of heart; why was he suddenly willing to use violence?”

“Excellent questions, the answers to which we are only beginning to tackle. It’s our early impression that Lynch was not acting using his full cognitive capacity. We believe that he was so overcome by his magical power that rational thought did not play a role in his actions.”

Harry pulled himself up from his seat at the desk and began pacing, noting the overstuffed bookshelves, including the book Harry had bought Robards for Christmas the previous year— _The Dark Arts, Illuminated_. Along another wall was a thick-bound noticeboard with overlapping parchment detailing wanted criminals and Death Eaters who had evaded capture as well as the vastly increasing number of missing people.

“To answer your question of how they did it, I’m afraid we’ll have to dig rather deeper in the past to understand the origins of _Colingo Magicae._ ”

Harry turned on his heel and met Robards’ eye. “What?”

“ _Colingo Magicae._ It means, literally, ‘magical unification’.” Robards heaved a short sigh. “When the victims of the IWC assembly were examined by Spanish Healers, something entirely unprecedented was found. The victims all had perfectly aligned brain waves, despite the fact that investigation showed every member being hit by two waves of the Imperius Curse, from two different casters. The sheer damage done was what worried us as Aurors. However, the Healers were more concerned with the singularity, alignment and harmony of the two waves of the curse and, thus, the two casters.”

“What does that mean, then?” Harry said, frowning. “They’ve connected their magical abilities somehow?”

“Not quite,” Robards said. “Initially the Healers thought that it was an extraordinarily powerful soul bond between Wimmer and Lynch. A soul bond being the tenuous link between souls that binds two people and makes them in tune to each other’s emotions. However, such bonds have little, if any, impact on magical prowess. And, with greater examination last night, the Healers concluded that the reality of the situation is far more serious.” Robards’ expression was grave. “It seems that the innate magic of the two has been bound, intertwined so tightly that it would make a soul bond look laughable in comparison.”

Harry stopped pacing and leaned over his chair, hands braced on either side. “How did that even happen?”

“If you mean how they managed to connect their magical cores, we have no idea.” Robards sighed. “If you mean what a magical core bond involves, the only plausible theory we’ve reached is that it involves a kind of potion-facilitated blood exchange.”

Harry let out a loud, aggravated sigh. “So where did the blood exchange happen? Do we have a list of Potions Masters who could’ve been in on it?”

Robards smiled at this. “Well, thanks in no small part to your quick thinking, we were able to track Wimmer’s location with your _Sequime_ spell and found where Wimmer and Lynch Apparated to: fifty miles north of Hogwarts.”

Harry felt a cold, aching dread wrestle inside of him. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Robards hummed good-naturedly. “Precisely my sentiments when I heard too,” he said. “My immediate reaction was to warn Headmistress McGonagall but we feared such a move would cause mass hysteria and we don’t yet want Lynch and Wimmer to know that we’re close on their trail.”

“How come the spell stuck?” Harry asked. “Every other spell I cast at them rebounded.”

Robards sighed. “I cannot tell. It is my understanding that something about their blood bond deterred any spell that would cause damage to either Wimmer or Lynch. A Tracking Spell, however, is utterly harmless and, from your account, neither of them had noticed your casting.”

“Alright,” Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to grasp everything that Robards had disclosed. “So what do we know about the area now?”

Robards face turned grave at this, the lines around his face becoming more prominent with his frown. “We know that this area is, in fact, a compound. It’s the size of a small village with an enormous amount of volatile, untamed magic, something that indicates quite a few occupants. We suspect that it is a kind of cult, with the people there either preparing to proceed with the blood bond, or having already received it and getting acquainted with its effects.”

Harry shut his eyes tightly, breathing slowly and deeply. He could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest. “How did nobody detect a surge in magical activity in northern Scotland before now?”

Robards smiled wanly. “It’s utterly undetectable unless one is within a hundred metre range to the exterior of the site. It’s completely concealed too; the only thing any of the Aurors I sent this morning were able to uncover was an enormous wall and a web of impenetrable spells protecting the outer boundary.”

“They couldn’t just fly over the wall?” Harry asked wryly.

“Not that straightforward, I’m afraid. From above, the top of the compound is completely concealed; it looks like a deserted wasteland.”

Harry nodded tightly. “So what are the effects of the blood bond?”

“We can’t know the full extent but, from what the Healers could gather from the damage Wimmer and Lynch both inflicted, the magic of both parties of the bond becomes extremely powerful according to the magical signature of each. If one party is magically weak and the other is magically potent, then both of their powers will surge but subsequently even out. If both parties are weak, then their powers will increase significantly, but they would not reach an alarming height. However, if both parties are powerful, well… I’m afraid their powers might very well be unstoppable.”

A heavy, straining weight lowered on Harry’s shoulders, pressing in and making his chest tight and constrained. “So their powers are strong and volatile, and we can’t tell how many people might be in this compound. We obviously can’t launch a raid—that would be slaughter. So what can we do?”

“Infiltration,” Robards said simply. “It’s our only viable option.”

The weight in Harry’s chest was beginning to subside. He could handle infiltration; a few weeks, perhaps months, undercover might be just what he needed. Harry needed an aim, something tangible and with an end in sight, if only to avenge the victims of the attack.

Robards was watching him curiously.

“Right, undercover,” Harry said. He frowned. “Why isn’t McNeil here?”

Robards smiled at him, paternally if slightly condescendingly. “Felix is a _potions-based case_ , Potter. McNeil is an excellent Auror but I distinctly recall him getting a T in his Potions NEWT. The only reason he was allowed to join the DMLE is because he managed to seduce the Admissions and Recruitment Board and I couldn’t fire him without getting an unlawful dismissal lawsuit on my desk.” He grumbled something under his breath that Harry didn’t hear. “I had to administer Veela-repulsion potions to the board members after that incident.”

Harry snorted. “The whole board? He never told me that.”

Robards shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t expect otherwise. I must have read hundreds of case reports written by you including the sentence ‘McNeil distracted the security guard and I snuck inside’.”

Harry grinned. “I thought ‘distract’ would be the best way to describe it and save you the details.”

Robards sighed but Harry caught a glimmer of amusement in his eye. “Well, McNeil and his powers of seduction aside, this case requires a potioneer of unparallelled skill to act as your partner.”

Harry’s smile dropped. “What?” he said blankly. “A potioneer won’t have any undercover experience. And how can we be sure that they’re not involved in the blood bond operation themselves?”

“We can’t, but it’s our only option for a case this critical in nature. And, unfortunately, our pool of suitable potioneers is limited.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked, growing frustrated. He could imagine reprimanding a potioneer with a similar demeanour and lack of subtlety as Slughorn, who might put the entire case in jeopardy because of their cluelessness.

“We’re restricted to British-based potioneers as this organisation—which the file calls Felix O, by the way—has managed to recruit the top potioneers from almost every European country. But no British ones.”

“What about international ones?” he asked.

Robards sighed. “As the two countries responsible for the attack were European, the international community has given us the task of catching the perpetrators.”

“Fuck,” Harry muttered tightly. “Well, it makes sense to choose non-British potioneers to work at Felix O to put us off their trail. Set up the compound in Britain but be sure not to rouse suspicion or tempt the Ministry by recruiting too many British potioneers for themselves.”

“Precisely,” Robards said, smiling. “They’re calculated, secretive and inscrutable. Which means,” Robards said, waving his wand to send another pile into Harry’s hand, “you’ll be partnered with one of Britain’s top potioneers and founder of the British Potioneers Society for Dark Arts Elucidation—”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He snapped his head up and stared at Robards, willing him not to say the next four syllables.

“—Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Robards glanced up, apparently bemused.

“Malfoy?” Harry repeated, choking on thin air over the word. “But… he’s one of the most… he _has_ to be involved with this operation. There’s no way…”

“He _has_ to, how, does he?” Robards asked, unimpressed.

“Yes. Somehow,” Harry insisted.

“Somehow? In what capacity exactly are you implying his involvement, Auror Potter?”

Robards only ever addressed him as Auror Potter when Harry was toeing the line of professionalism.

Harry tried to compose himself, but his mind was utterly devoid of any remotely useful points. “I just mean… this sounds like a tempting offer to any potioneer. The chance to work on producing a potion of this magnitude, with some of the best potioneers in the world. It’s probably an impressive feat, would make a potioneer reputable among Dark circles and, well… that sounds exactly the kind of thing Malfoy would be attracted to.”

Robards’ mouth was pressed in a firm line. “Well, Potter, you’re right in one respect, and that’s the magnitude of this. Hence why we need _the best_ to be unequivocally on our side. And Malfoy, undoubtedly, and however reluctantly I admit this, is the best.” Robards sighed and pressed his thumb and index finger on his temple, squeezing the skin there. “I understand that your relationship with Malfoy while at school wasn’t… civil.”

Harry made a loud, sarcastic sound.

“But,” Robards said, “that doesn’t warrant throwing around accusations without even a shred of evidence.”

“My evidence is my experience,” Harry said hotly.

“Experience with Malfoy? Potter, you testified at his trial. You assured the court that most of his actions were done under extreme threat and coercion. And that he refused to identify you to known Death Eaters, something that would have saved both himself and his family from You-Know-Who’s wrath. You said that he was redeemable.”

“I know,” Harry said sharply. “I just meant that his motivations have always been self-serving. We can’t trust someone like him who’s willingly agreed to abandon his post and join in an extremely dangerous undercover operation. He’d be sabotaging his business, not to mention his personal life, and putting himself in harm’s way. For what?”

“As I see it, Malfoy considers this an area of academic interest. And if this operation is successful, given its scale, an Order of Merlin wouldn’t be out of the question.”

Harry stared. “You’re pulling my wand.”

“I most certainly am not, Potter.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think you’ve grasped the scale of this operation and how perilous it might be. You’re letting a petty boyhood rivalry get in the way of unearthing an international-scale, cult-like organisation involved in Dark Magic which, already, has sabotaged wizarding democracy at the highest level and killed over a dozen of the most powerful politicians in the world.”

Harry threw himself back in his chair, incensed but unwillingly attentive. “Fine. Other than the potioneers, Lynch and Wimmer, who’s involved?”

Robards gave his wand a sharp flick and an enormous stack of files shot across the office and landed triumphantly on his desk. “We’ve drawn tenuous links between this organisation—Felix O—and a number of Dark Arts proponents as well as… married couples.”

Harry tilted his head, sure that he had misheard.

Robards nodded, indulging in an amused smile. “Indeed. Apparently, this blood bond—at least, according to the Healers—facilitates intimacy. It’s seen as a kind of ‘ultimate devotion’ between couples. Not only does the bond equalise the magical power between a couple but it also involves a blood sacrifice and a very significant condition: if one of the parties of the blood bond dies, so does the other.”

*

“Sounds like a sick twist of your prophesy if you ask me, mate,” Ron said when Harry confessed the case to him and Hermione over dinner the following evening.

“It rather does, actually,” Hermione said quietly. “And a very twisted interpretation of devotion and romance, if you ask me.”

Harry ladled a third helping of lentil, potato and beef stew in his bowl and sighed.

“From a purely psychological standpoint, I can understand the appeal,” Hermione continued. “The notion of self-sacrifice on the part of the magically stronger, imbuing equality and necessary fidelity on the relationship, may outwardly seem attractive. Obviously, though, the suggestion that both members of the bond would die if one is killed makes me extremely concerned. And it also whittles down the list of possible suspects.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, chomping moodily on a chunk of beef.

“Well,” Hermione said, her voice breathless in the way it only ever became when she was about to explain something that, in her opinion, was highly fascinating and worth sharing, “you mentioned that Robards suspects both Dark witches and wizards as well as married couples to take this blood bond. The only issue is, I find it highly unlikely that so many Dark wizards would be willing to put their lives at risk in the event that the person they’re bonded to is killed. They might turn on each other, mightn’t they? Perhaps imprison the person they’re bonded to so that they benefit from increased magical abilities but won’t be paranoid about the other person being killed in the process.”

Harry hummed agreeably around a spoonful of stew. “I suppose. But when the bond is complete, the Healers think that both their magical abilities increase and they end up evenly matched. So if they suspected each other, they wouldn’t be able to just lock the other person inside a trunk, would they? They’d be evenly matched. And duelling would be too risky in case they managed to kill each other too.” Harry shook his head. “No, I reckon they’d both have to be on the same page; have all the same aims, like Lynch and Wimmer.”

“I suppose that’s a good point too,” Hermione sighed, fork slipping into her bowl and splattering stew on the table. “Oh, Merlin. _Scourgify_ ,” she said, pointing her wand at the stain. “Goodness, Harry, this really is a serious case. I suppose McNeil’s usual tactics mightn’t work this time, especially if this organisation consists mainly of supremely loyal couples, though.” Hermione firmly did not approve of McNeil using his Veela blood to his advantage in his fieldwork alongside Harry.

“I met McNeil at Ginny’s last weekend, actually,” Ron said. “Apparently he’s related to Blaise, but I’m not sure how.”

“Sweet Merlin, why am I not surprised?” Hermione said under her breath.

“Yeah, and Blaise was talking all about the Felix case too,” Ron continued.

Hermione looked up sharply. “But he’s an Unspeakable,” she said reprovingly. “There’s no possible way he would talk about a case that his department is involved in.”

“But it’s not his department’s case, is it?” Ron said. “His department’s been consulted, which means that any research he carries out related to the case is the property of the DMLE, not the Unspeakables.”

Hermione made a huffing noise and said muttered something under her breath about ‘abhorrent ethics.’

“What did he say, anyway?” Harry pressed.

“Blaise said that he’s part of a team uncovering a method to dissect spell usage—the dangerous ones. He said that the version of Imperius that Lynch and Wimmer used wasn’t modified in any way—not like two versions of one spell, like _Lumos_ and _Lumos Maxima_ —but that it was all in the power they had. He said he’d never seen anything like it on a subject.”

“Wait, Unspeakables have been allowed to carry out tests on the victims as well as Healers?” Hermione probed.

“Looks like it,” Ron said with a shrug.

“Well, I understand their interest in such areas but _really_ ,” she sighed, “I think that Healing should be the priority here, not Unspeakable scrutiny. Merlin knows how invasive the tests they carry out are.”

“I’m surprised McNeil didn’t mention it,” Ron said, glancing warily at Hermione.

“I haven’t seen him in a few days,” Harry muttered. “He’s not my partner for this case.”

He had wanted to wait until after their meal to tell Ron and Hermione about Malfoy because Ron had a tendency to spit out whatever he was eating upon hearing shocking news—a lingering side-effect of a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes product gone badly wrong.

Hermione tilted her head owlishly at him. “Then who is? Surely not Robards himself? Or is it Susie Stepstone? You mentioned that she was a favourite of Robards’.”

“No,” Harry sighed, stabbing a potato. “It’s Malfoy.”

Hermione’s forearm dropped on the table and her palm smacked the surface. As predicted, Ron made a choking sound but, luckily, had managed to swallow his spoonful of stew in time. And Harry felt like crawling into a hole or shouting at the injustice of the situation. At the top of his career, a favourite to succeed Robards as Head Auror, his life generally proceeding well—he was even considering adopting a Kneazle—apart his infrequent, rather tame love life. So how was it that his opportunity to handle the most significant case of his career, his opportunity to find something of worth in his work at the DMLE, was going to be blighted by Draco Malfoy of all people?

“You’re joking,” Ron said in a hollow voice. “It can’t be Malfoy. He’s not an Auror. And he’s probably involved in all of it, the git.”

“That’s exactly what I said when Robards told me,” Harry muttered bitterly.

“Well, you did mention that it was a potions-based case, Harry,” Hermione said rather gingerly, as though scared of provoking Harry into a Malfoy-induced rant. “And his work is, admittedly, impressive. You know he actually conducted an absolutely fascinating potions study on blood magic a couple of years ago: _Bonds, Blood Charms and Sacrifice in Potion-brewing._ It was published internationally. Don’t you remember reporters asking for your opinion on it a few years ago when people learned of the protection staying at Privet Drive granted you because you were blood-relatives with Mrs Dursley? That was all because of Malfoy’s article.”

“Oh, so I’ve him to thank now, do I?” Harry said drily.

Hermione ignored him. “And Malfoy was consulted on the legal use of certain potions in a number of high profile Wizengamot cases too.” She gave him a withering look. “I know what he was like at Hogwarts and I’m not saying he’s not still like that, but it’s important to put a case as important as this above a personal grudge, Harry. So much is at stake here.”

“I know how much is at stake,” Harry said hotly. “That’s _why_ I’m pissed off. Malfoy could put this entire thing in jeopardy or, worse still, double cross me at any stage. McNeil might be a wild card sometimes and I know you don’t like him, Hermione, but at least I can trust him. I know where his loyalties are, I know he has my back, I know that he’s on our side. And I can’t say any of those things about Malfoy!”

Ron and Hermione exchanged the wary look they always did when Harry’s temper flared.

“Look, mate,” Ron began. “I agree with you. Malfoy’s a slick-haired wanker who’s only looking out for himself and, honestly, will probably drive you ‘round the bend.”

“Really reassuring, thanks,” Harry muttered.

“But,” Ron said, “you’ve worked with tossers before, right? Remember that case years ago that you and I worked on? With the Wizarding Wireless soap star who turned out to be an absolute nightmare and wouldn’t stop demanding things, like we were her personal assistants or something? What I mean is, you can handle Malfoy. Seriously,” he insisted at Harry’s raised eyebrow. “And he’ll probably be off prancing around like the git he is, studying the potion while you get the proper investigative work done without him, but it’s not the same as being back at school. He’s working for you.”

“I suppose,” Harry said, still irritated. “I just can’t believe Robards would trust him for something this critical.”

“Well, he’s not being tasked with much investigative work, though, is he?” Hermione said earnestly. “He won’t have to be undercover—he can just pretend that he’s interested in working with the other Dark potioneers.”

“Yeah, _pretend_ ,” Harry muttered sagely. Ron plonked a hefty slice of apple pie drowned in custard in front of him and he stabbed the buttery crust with his fork.

“What I mean is, your requirements as an undercover Auror don’t fall on him to meet,” Hermione said, accepting Ron’s proffered slice of pie. “It actually makes your job less constricted as you both will have different areas to focus on. And you won’t have to worry about him breaking cover—he probably won’t even have to feign interest in the potion either.”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “It’ll be all too easy for Malfoy to join in properly behind my back, while I’m investigating some other part of the compound.”

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m sure Robards doesn’t expect you to trust him unequivocally but you need to at least try and see past the seventeen year old you expect him to still be. Everyone has changed.”

“Not willingly,” Harry said sagely. He rubbed the corners of his eyes, a wave of tiredness hitting him. “Look, I’d better go. I’m meeting him, Robards and a few consultant DMLE members at eight tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll see you here for dinner tomorrow?” Hermione asked anxiously.

“Or St Mungo’s, most likely,” Ron muttered.

Harry grinned at him and levitated his bowl and cutlery to land in the sink, which instantly filled with soapy bubbles and steamy water. “Thanks for dinner, then.”

“Our pleasure,” Hermione said, getting to her feet to see him out.

Harry kissed her cheek—getting a mouthful of bushy hair in the process—grinned and waved at Ron and made his way out of their front door. The wind outside was fierce and biting. He had considered taking the Floo, but he thought that a walk would do him some good to consider his situation. The idea of seeing Malfoy again after so long, let alone in a professional setting, was enough to make his insides curl and make him regret that third helping of stew. How was he expected to act? Moreover, how would _Malfoy_ behave?

“Like his usual pointy, snobbish self,” a voice in his head—which sounded distinctly like Ron’s—supplied.

Harry sighed and continued along the path, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head and crouching slightly as a particularly ferocious gust of wind swept past him. Harry would have to wait until tomorrow and anticipate how to act until then. Hermione would be rather proud, he thought, passing a group of chattering schoolgirls wearing muddied lacrosse uniforms, their hair windswept. Hermione would certainly recommend that he “assess the situation, Harry, especially knowing your tendency to dive straight in without considering the consequences”.

He jogged across the street and took a shortcut through the park, where a terrier was bounding towards a toddler and his father, a ball in his mouth. Though it was evening and September, the sky was curiously bright and cloudless. He noticed the toddler run away from the dog, giggling uproariously as the terrier chased him.

“Come on, Liam! You too, Sparky!” the father called. “Your Mum will kill me if you catch a cold from his chilly wind.”

“Coming, Daddy!” the boy called, running through the grass, the dog obediently at his heels.

Harry watched them and smiled. The little boy reminded him of Teddy, somehow, despite the fact that Teddy was a few years older. He had celebrated his fifth birthday in April, when Harry had gifted him a miniature broom which, as Andromeda had told him, she constantly struggled to convince him to get off or catch up with him when she was chasing him around the garden.

Harry ambled beyond the park gate, lost in thoughts of just how much of an unpleasant surprise it would be for Malfoy to find out that he would be working alongside Harry for his convenient ‘favour’ to the DMLE. He sincerely hoped that tomorrow would be the first time Malfoy realised that his partner for the Felix case would be none other than him. Harry smiled indulgently at the thought of Malfoy swanning into the office only to find Harry in the chair beside him, with Robards and DMLE consultants directly opposite and no plausible way to voice his outrage at the situation. 

With a yawn, Harry crossed the road to the building of his flat. Tall, with a dilapidated ground floor and overgrown ivy covering most of the exterior face of the building, it didn’t look particularly welcoming but to Harry, it was home. The interior of his flat was warm, if slightly messy, with honey tones, blankets strewn across his sofas and armchairs, a roaring fire and an enormous bed piled with pillows and blankets courtesy of Mrs Weasley’s incessant knitting. His wardrobe, too, bore a resemblance to a small clothes shop, with his mass of Auror robes—bottle green, with gold trimmings—as well as Muggle clothing, undercover clothes that he had long forgotten to return to the Disguises Department, and his Hogwarts robes that he hadn’t had the heart to throw out. He still occasionally wore his Gryffindor scarf when the weather was especially cold in London.

At the moment, however, half of his wardrobe was discarded across his bedroom floor in an attempt to find his dress robes for a Ministry function the previous week to celebrate the opening of a new wizarding primary school in Buckinghamshire, ‘Willowsworth Wizarding Primary School’, where Teddy had begun to attend. He hadn’t quite found the motivation to put everything back into the wardrobe.

Toeing off his dragonhide boots, peeling off his black jeans and throwing his jumper onto his bedside chair, Harry collapsed into bed with a groan. It was irresistible; warm, cosy, with the howling wind audible from outside his single-glazed window. He could deal with Malfoy and his precociousness and slick hair and uptight frame and perpetual sneer tomorrow, after a long rest and a morning shower. Tomorrow seemed too far away to even consider worrying about. And so Harry nuzzled into his blankets, closed his eyes and dreamed of wiping the self-satisfied smile of Malfoy’s face.


	4. Affrontare

Seven o’clock, Harry thought absently, as he strode down the entrance hallway to the Auror Headquarters at the DMLE, was an abominable time to hold a meeting. That morning alone, Harry had almost poured salt into his coffee, had needed to forego his shower to save time, meaning that his hair was unrulier than unusual, and had managed to put his Auror robes on backwards. He was surprised, therefore, to find himself very almost on time for the meeting. The office, however, was almost completely deserted. He could only see three other people—two eager trainee Aurors and McNeil, his partner, hunched over his desk.

“McNeil!” Harry called.

With a dramatic jolt, McNeil sprung to his feet, wand poised, feet planted firmly, and eyes dazed but fierce. He caught sight of Harry laughing and his wand arm fell to his side.

“Potter, you utter wanker!” he said, stowing his wand in his robe pocket.

The two trainees had paused their conversation to watch them.

“What are you doing here at this time?” McNeil demanded.

Harry sauntered over to him to see his desk completely covered in papers, most of which were crumpled and stained, as though McNeil had fallen asleep on top of them and spilled a mug of coffee.

“I could ask you the same question,” he said. “I’m here for the Felix case meeting.”

“Ah,” McNeil said. “Dead jealous, Potter. While you’re on your furtive, glamorous undercover mission, I’ve been partnered with Nora-Mae Comer for a basic track and report case.” He made a face of utter disgust.

“Nora-Mae’s a decent Auror,” Harry said, secretly thinking that Robards was punishing McNeil after remembering the Potions ordeal.

“Yeah, when she’s not drooling all over me,”

“Shut up, you’re not fooling anyone,” Harry said, laughing. “I know you love the attention.”

“Perhaps,” McNeil said sagely. “But not while I’m actually trying to do my job. It’s no wonder Robards doesn’t take me seriously.”

“Chin up,” Harry said, trying to smile at him. “I’ll talk to Robards, alright?”

“Thanks, Potter,” McNeil said, mock-saluting him. “Now shove off before you’re late for your meeting and give Robards another chance to demote me.”

Harry obliged, smiling apologetically, and jogged to the furthest office, concealed by an enormous chestnut door with a brass handle adorned with small engravings that Harry suspected were runes. He knocked and heard a deep voice call “Enter!”.

Harry pushed open the door and was met with five faces: Kinsley Shaklebolt, Robards, two women that he suspected were the DMLE consultants, and Draco Malfoy.

“Harry,” Kingsley said genially, his deep voice almost entrancing. “I’d like you to meet Eleanor Sullivan, specialising in modern lethal potions use,” he said, indicating to a rosy-cheeked witch who shook his hand fervently, “and Mabel Shum-Jones, specialising in international terrorism.” The second witch, slightly older, smiled genially at Harry but had an absent look about her that suggested her mind was elsewhere.

“I assume, of course, that you’re acquainted with Draco Malfoy.”

At this, given the excuse to look at Malfoy, Harry turned to face him. If Malfoy was shocked or repulsed to see that Harry would be his partner, his expression didn’t show it. Harry, conversely, was rather surprised by what he saw. Strangely, whenever he had ever imagined Malfoy, he always looked like the same seventeen-year-old boy, sneering at him, with a greyish tinge to his skin and dark circles under his pale eyes. Harry hadn’t taken into account that Malfoy, too, might have matured since Harry had last seen him. His eyes were cold and calculating, his poise impeccable and his robes neatly pressed, a deep shade of magenta that brought out the faint blush very high on his cheeks. His hair was slightly longer, tucked behind his ears and with loose waves at the base that made him look curiously younger, more subdued.

It was then that Harry realised that Malfoy had held out his hand.

“Potter,” he said quietly, his voice charged.

“Malfoy,” Harry muttered, grasping his hand and shaking it once, firmly. Malfoy’s fingers were long and elegant but his skin was uncomfortably cold. Probably from the ice running through his veins, Harry thought savagely.

“Alright, gentlemen, ladies,” Kingsley said, nodding between them. “Please take a seat.” With a long, sweeping motion, four chairs—straight-backed and with a plush, velvet seat—materialised.

Harry sat with Malfoy—upright and rigid—on his right and Shum-Jones—legs crossed and gaze never leaving Kingsley—on his left.

“Alright,” Kingsley began, pulling a file out. “As I understand it, everyone here has been briefed on the nature of the Felix case and what little we already know so I’m not going to repeat it. As Minister for Magic, however, it is my duty to inform you of a number of particular dangers you will need to watch for and which Ms Sullivan and Ms Shum-Jones have expertise in.

“Firstly, the very nature of this operation demands the highest level of secrecy that we can afford. Anyone who had been made aware of the existence of the Felix case will be bound by a magical contract that compels them to deny any knowledge of it or the people involved. 

“Secondly, and although we’ve been rebutted by other Ministries of Magic around the world, this isn’t a British case. There very well may be other Aurors deployed to the compound that we’re not aware of as yet so, while I advise you to treat everyone with utmost suspicion, don’t be too cautious or reckless either. For all we know, there could be more people on the inside that you can use to your advantage.

“And finally, don’t underestimate anyone or their abilities. Because of the degree of unstable magic many people have, they may look undaunting, or unlike your typical Dark Art connoisseur, but they may wield unaccountable power. The issue is the unknown.”

Kingsley looked between the four of them, his gaze lingering pointedly between Harry and Malfoy. His voice, although very deep and resounding, held a hint of warning that Harry was unfamiliar with. 

“Now.” Kingsley sighed, clasping his hands behind his back, something that served to make him look more imposing. “Ms Shum-Jones, if you’d like to speak for us.”

Shum-Jones stood gracefully and made her way to where Kingsley had stood as he rounded her chair and leaned over it, resting his forearms on the back of the chair.

“Although my speciality lies in international terrorism, this, quite frankly, is a case like no other I’ve been consulted on. Felix O, the hub of the organisation, is based in Britain, but we suspect that the best European mainland potioneers are involved. However, it is not the international skills required to make the potion that I need to examine but the attack itself. Northern Ireland and Austria before this had very little notable ties. They co-operate on trade and share similar stances on areas such as magical creature habitat conservation and ecological interests. Otherwise, nothing could have anticipated a consensus between Wimmer and Lynch like this.

“My primary finding from examining memories of Aurors and delegates alike is that a catastrophic attack of this nature was not planned. It is my professional conclusion that neither Wimmer nor Lynch wanted to engage in any kind of violence; their aim was to destabilise the passage of a political Act. However, the way in which they applied their magical power was not subtle enough and, in catching the attention of Aurors, both knew that their only means of escape was violence and distraction.

“From an international terrorism standpoint, this is both good and bad news. Good because it may signify that a strong majority—such as politicians and married couples—choose not to take the blood bond with terrorism and distruction as their primary aim. Bad because this doesn’t seem to matter in the execution of their magical powers. No matter how pure and singular their intentions are, subjects who take the blood bond may succumb to their overwhelming magical power when they or their blood partners are threatened. This may prove catastrophic. My initial advice remains”—here she looked significantly at Kingsley—“to review Ministry employees to check for abnormal levels of magical ability.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and caught Kingsley’s impassive expression. Judging solely by the significant look he was sharing with Shum-Jones, they had already discussed this in depth. 

“Very well, thank you,” Kingsley said.

She smiled and took her place beside Harry. He noticed that she hadn’t once looked at him or Malfoy during the entire duration of her piece. Vaguely, he considered that she was more concerned with another attack happening in the Ministry itself rather than taking out the root of Felix O. Harry had to agree with her, at least partly. The operation could take weeks and nobody could predict when a second case of mishandled magic could happen. 

Eleanor Sullivan stood up then, looking slightly flustered with pink cheeks and a stack of papers clutched between her arms so tightly that it looked as though she was hugging the research papers.

“Morning,” she said brightly, smiling at each of them in turn. Sullivan heaved the papers onto the desk and read in a fast, slightly quavering voice. “I’m here representing a very small subsection of the DMLE that you probably haven’t heard of.” She laughed nervously. Harry noticed that she couldn’t quite hold anyone’s gaze and tried to smile reassuringly at her. 

“My area of research is on the use and proliferation of modern lethal potions,” Sullivan continued, rifling through the pile on the desk before producing a piece of parchment that was almost completely covered with tiny, slanted writing and strange diagrams. “I’ve been asked not to consult with anyone else in my department about this work considering its sensitivity but I’m afraid the work I’ve been able to do, even by myself, has been limited by what little we know about the nature of the potion.

“Instead, I’ve had to look at the apparent effects and Healer reports to even begin to consider what this potion might entail,” she continued. “So far, I’ve drawn some tentative theories but I’m afraid that’s all they are—theories. The only practically quantifiable work I’ve been able to do over the last couple of days is examine the fluctuations of the potions market over the last three months. From what I can tell, there haven’t been many changes to note—the price of dittany leaves has increased slightly, Granian hair has increased in demand—nothing of any real concern. However,” she said, smiling sheepishly, “the official markets don’t take into account underhand dealings and the black market. And the fact that Felix O seems to be a global organisation, I’m afraid that finding patterns in the official markets has been a difficult task.”

Sullivan looked up from behind the piece of parchment then, meeting Shum-Jones’s eye. “If I may, I may have a theory about Lynch’s change of heart around the use of violence that might be justified by the power of the blood bond.”

When Shum-Jones nodded, she continued, speaking rapidly. “Well, it seemed that he was initially very reluctant to use violent means. From close examination of particular memories, he remained quite still during the entire ordeal, apparently to be able to resist the enormous magical power inside of him that compelled him to act in response to the spells cast by the Aurors. It was when Wimmer became trapped behind those walls that Lynch began to retaliate against the Aurors and delegates who got in her path.”

She paused at this, looking at Harry and Malfoy directly for the first time, her eyes protruding very slightly, as though surprised to see them both. “This leads me to believe that, contrary to our initial view, it was not a case of Lynch not being able to control his magical power entirely; only that he wasn’t able to control it when Wimmer was in danger. From a lethal potions standpoint, this is absolutely fascinating,” she said, suppressing an indulgent grin as she rifled through her enormous pile of notes, “however, it is quite worrying. Insofar as it applies to your undercover work, my only advice would be not to anger or insult anyone in Felix O if you don’t want to deal with the wrath of their blood bond partner. Insofar as it applies to the nature of the potion itself”—here she glanced at Malfoy with an eager smile that reminded Harry of Hermione when they had been awarded homework at Hogwarts—“I’d be happy to discuss some theories with you, Mr Malfoy.”

Harry glanced to his right and saw Malfoy nod discreetly.

“Alright, thank you Ms Sullivan,” Kingsley said calmly. 

She nodded, heaved the pile of papers from the desk and took her seat again. 

With slow, purposeful footsteps, Kingsley returned to the front of the office. “Very well,” he said, looking between them with that fierce gaze Harry had come to recognise only when he had seen Kingsley in the midst of battle. “I don’t intend to disguise the very real threat of another attack. This is a case that needs to get underway as soon as possible. However, that doesn’t mean that precautionary steps and thorough investigative work should be put on the back burner. We want to take Felix O down from the inside and with any luck, we will succeed if we maintain a policy of full transparency and co-operation. I will want bi-weekly reports about any and all case developments on my desk, Robards. And the same for potions research developments, Ms Sullivan.”

Robards and Sullivan both nodded. Harry thought he saw a slight strain in the way Robards was looking at Kingsley, his smile almost grim. Their relationship was always cordial as far as Harry could tell, but Harry had the distinct impression that Robards felt overshadowed in Kinsley’s presence. This seemed to be especially so now that Kingsley had taken direct control of a case that was meant to be his exclusively to oversee. 

Kingsley’s lips pressed into a firm line and he fixed Harry with a piercing look. “Good luck and remember your training. You two can go and see Disguises and Case Management with Robards now. They should have some methods of correspondence for the two of you,” he said this to Harry and Malfoy, “with Robards and Ms Sullivan. Ms Shum-Jones—a word?”

At the dismissal, Harry got to his feet and followed a hunched Robards and a very eager Sullivan out of the office. He vaguely wondered how long they had been there for as, when he walked into the open-plan office space, it was almost full. There were memos swooping overhead, some distant bangs and a very annoying clicking sound from the experimentation rooms to their right and general office chatter permeating the air. 

Harry quickened his pace to walk alongside Robards, who had a grave expression.

“You weren’t expecting Kingsley to head the meeting, were you?” Harry said as they veered around the corridor and towards the Disguises and Case Management Department. 

“No,” Robards said. “He owled me rather late last night about the urgency of the case and asked whether I had briefed you and Malfoy. But he didn’t mention that he’d be at the meeting itself.”

Harry nodded.

They met a row of apparently steel, solid barricades that diffused to a pleasantly warm smoke when they passed through. Finally, as they dashed past the twin set of doors that occasionally demanded the passer-by to provide full documentation if they lingered too long outside them, Harry was met with the laughable juxtaposition that was the Disguises and Case Management Department. It was a large, square office space, parted between the two subdivisions by a completely bare carpet. 

Harry could only describe the right side of the office as flamboyant, sequin-wearing and feather boa-donned chaos. It was a feast for the eyes; full mannequins with various fabrics draped over them, pins shooting through the air, Muggle sewing machines operating independently and strips of ribbons twirling like batons high above them and brushing almost cheekily along the back of Harry’s neck. One wall was covered entirely with masks and prosthetic facial features—there was one particular nose that sneezed every time someone walked beneath it. On the far side of the office, near the vat of bubbling Polyjuice Potion, the three witches there were busy at work, shouting above the mellow, tranquil music emerging from a small pile of what looked like lingerie. 

The left side of the office—the Case Management side—was drab, silent and sterile in comparison. About twenty desks, occupied by frowning witches and wizards who paid them no heed stood there, with the back wall entirely covered in filing cabinets. If the witches and wizards hadn’t been wearing robes, or the filing cabinets didn’t voluntarily begin shuffling whenever they organised themselves, Harry would have presumed it was a particularly dull Muggle office dedicated to something like taxes or accounting. 

It took a minute for Robards to catch the attention of anyone on the Case Management side—they had a permanent and extremely strong Silencing Spell placed between them and the Disguises subsection. After a moment of Robards’s frantic waving, during which time Malfoy—who had arrived with Sullivan a moment beforehand—smirked loftily, a small man with a prominent nose caught sight of them. He waved his wand and smiled apologetically. 

“So sorry about that, Gawain. I tend to zone out sometimes,” he said in a hoarse voice, as though he hadn’t spoken to anyone in hours.

“Not to worry, Dominic,” Robards said good-naturedly. “Dominic Fawley, everyone.”

Fawley smiled jovially at each of them before grasping the side of his desk and kneeling on the ground. He began patting the carpet distractedly. “Aha!” he cried after a moment and, grasping something that looked utterly invisible to Harry, a trapdoor materialised from the carpet. One by one, they made their way down a winding staircase with a greasy handrail until they arrived inside a bright room with an assortment of plump armchairs, a tray of steaming tea and biscuits and a small Wizarding Wireless placed on top of a stack of parchment, from which Celestina Warbeck’s faint crooning could be heard.

“Please take a seat,” Fawley said invitingly, gesturing to the chairs. “And help yourself to the tea and biscuits. My wife popped by with them this morning—freshly baked and as delectable as ever.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Robards said, plucking a ginger nut from the top of the pile. 

“I’ll just cast the Protection Spells and we’ll begin,” Fawley said, bustling to where the trap door above them was still wide open and making long, sweeping motions with his wand. 

Harry took a seat on a handsome armchair with a sinking cushion that reminded him of his favourite sofa in the Gryffindor common room. Robards and Sullivan were on the teal sofa to his left, Sullivan leaning forward as though she was about to take flight and Robards tucked into the corner with evident comfort but still wearing the alert, slightly strained expression that Harry had seen during the meeting. Malfoy, on the other hand, had chosen to stand nearest to Fawley’s desk and had his body positioned towards Harry but his expression blank and eyes restless, flitting over every feature in the room.

“All finished!” Fawley said brightly. He made his way over to his desk, squeezing politely past Malfoy, and sat down at his desk with a withered sigh. “I hope you don’t mind the decor. The office upstairs feels a little formal at times and I needed a place of my own to keep the more sensitive files I have to deal with.” He lifted his wand and with an energetic flick, a thin, tightly-bound file fell into his lap. 

“Felix,” Fawley said with rather inappropriate cheerfulness. “Now, with the limited access I was granted to this case,” he said, looking pointedly at Robards, “I’ve collected a number of preparatory resources. You boys won’t know much until you arrive at Felix O and are able to report back—after which time I’ll be able to provide you with more adept materials—so I haven’t got too much to give you this early on.”

Fawley reached behind him and pulled out what looked like a delicate jewelry box. Inside, however, were two very small, black stickers. “These,” he said, “are Morse Wiretaps, adapted from the Muggle equivalent.” He handed them to Malfoy and Harry in turn. “You simply stick it to a part of your any part of your body—preferably concealed—and tap out the morse code to transmit it directly to your handlers’ wands. Feedback from another user told me that pretending you have a habit of drumming on your thighs is a handy excuse for tapping the Wiretap in public. Just make sure that you hit it correctly.”

Harry nodded and slipped the Wiretap into the pocket of his Auror robes. He spotted Malfoy examine it further, tapping it with the tip of his wand. 

“Secondly, as Felix O is a compound, intelligence is unsure whether it is common practise for the wizards inside to leave every night or not. Obviously I recommend blending in and following the norm so, if you find yourselves unable to return to the Ministry every night to present your memories for examination, we recommend forming a code between yourselves and writing in a diary each night to record sightings and evidence. Keep it as discrete and unintelligible as possible to avoid suspicion should someone come across it and keep the translation of the code words on your person at all times. We don’t usually advise this but, considering the lack of external communication being inside Felix O might afford you, we want to take all precautions necessary. And you’d be surprised by what you forget in a day; memories are often too unreliable and inadmissible as evidence to the Wizengamot if they’re more than twenty four hours old before they are extracted from the mind.”

Harry felt a strange, lingering unease at the thought of keeping a diary of evidence. No doubt Malfoy would insist on some absurd ancient runes-inspired language to write in, he thought bitterly. But then again, Malfoy wouldn’t be keeping track of evidence-collecting and investigation; he would be figuring out the workings of the potion. 

As though Fawley had read Harry’s mind, he continued. “Now, I’ve consulted with Disguises about you two and we’ve agreed on no change at all to Mr Malfoy’s appearance. You’ll present yourself to Felix O as a potioneer interested in the research aspect of the organisation and, hopefully, garner some respect from the organisers. We feel that your reputation in the inner Dark Circles of Felix O might be of some use to gain access to some of the more restricted areas.”

Harry glanced over to see Malfoy’s face impassive but polite. He nodded tightly and accepted the proffered file from Fawley. 

“For you, Mr Potter, we’ve agreed on a subtle transfiguration to the face—nothing more than you’re used to by this stage—with an identity change. You’ll no longer be Harry Potter, but Harold Auditore, twenty three and a long-time quill-friend of Draco Malfoy. A colleague of mine suggested that you both invented your own language of communication in your youth that nobody else could fathom so that, should someone happen upon your case notes or diaries, you have an excuse. 

“Harold Auditore was raised in several different countries, hence why you have very few contacts in the UK. He was also homeschooled, hence your absence from Hogwarts. You took no part in the war as you were with your parents—Mary and Adam Auditore—in Colombo, Sri Lanka, where your grandparents reside. However, your parents disappeared two weeks ago and, since then, you have been searching ceaselessly for them. You suspect that they may be at Felix O, engaged in the blood bond and unable to contact you. Along with your long friendship with Draco Malfoy, your reason for coming to Felix O is to find your parents.” 

Harry nodded, accepting the file from Fawley’s pudgy hand. “Believable,” he said, sifting through it and finding a wealth of information on his new identity. For shorter cases, he tended to be given a very slim file indeed but, considering the undeterminable nature of the case, he surmised that nothing had been left to chance for good reason. 

“Now,” Fawley said bracingly. “I’ll just connect Gawain and Ms…?”

“Sullivan,” she said promptly.

He smiled genially. “And Ms Sullivan’s wands to your Morse Wiretaps and then you’ll be all set.”

Harry spent the next five minutes looking between the intricate network of spells Fawley was casting and Malfoy, who was watching him with a blank expression, as though he wasn’t really taking the scene before him in. Malfoy didn’t look tired—his skin had a faintly silvery glow in the modest lighting—but his expression was slightly distressed. Harry wondered whether he was considering backing out of the case, after hearing what it might entail. Or perhaps he was worried about tarnishing his reputation, which had been reinstated to its pre-War status over the past five years, by joining a Dark Arts cult. Or maybe Malfoy feared some Dark Arts fanatics would shun him for professing his regret and guilt for the crimes of the War. Whatever thought was crossing thought or regret was passing through Malfoy’s mind, Harry knew that asking him would do nothing but irritate Malfoy. Not that irritating Malfoy wasn’t beneath him, but Harry knew that putting their differences aside for the sake of the case would probably be the more mature thing to do. He just didn’t want to give in too easily. 

“All finished,” Fawley announced, handing the Wiretaps back to Harry and Malfoy.

They thanked him and, after Robards had exchanged a brief, surreptitious word with Fawley, made their way back up the staircase. When they emerged, Harry caught sight of a tiny witch with cropped blonde hair who was beaming between Harry and Malfoy as though they were her favourite Christmas present. 

“Please,” she said, gesturing to the Disguises half of the office. 

Harry walked in step with her, Draco two paces behind them.

“I’m Aphra,” she said, stepping expertly over a pile of materials that slinked around their ankles. “I just left Hogwarts and this is my first job so they gave me your case so that I might add something fresh to your wardrobes. Moe thinks that the older designers sometimes produce robes with a particular style that’s readily traceable. They didn’t want predictability for your case, though,” she added, as though this was something to be extremely proud of. “So I was given the task of producing two months’ worth of robes for two people in two days.”

Harry privately thought that the task had been handed to Aphra because she was new and willing to work rather than to fit with the so-called requirement of anonymity. The robes produced by Disguises could be described in many ways but ‘predictable’ was not one of them. 

“I’ll have to adjust sizing a little but that won’t take long,” she said, directing two stools and an enormous, ornate mirror towards them and directing them to land with a gentle thud. “Every set of robes had been fitted with protective measures and there are signalling moderators embedded in the fabric. Mr Malfoy,” she said, looking behind to catch his eye, “because you’ll be dealing with potions ingredients, I’ve added some preventative layers to the stitching so that, if you handle any toxic ingredients, the fabric will absorb and dispel it rather than let it touch your skin.”

Malfoy nodded firmly but didn’t respond. 

Aphra disappeared behind a rack of clothing and emerged a moment later with a sheet of parchment. “Moe’s going to transfigure your facial features, Mr Potter, while I tailor Mr Malfoy’s robes.”

“Alright, thanks,” Harry said, making his way to Moe’s workshop to the right of the amputated noses and below the wigs, which swayed despite the stillness of the air. Moe was certainly the most careful of the witches in Disguises when it came to transfiguration and he was relieved to see the preparatory sketch of his face—or rather Harold’s face—was familiar. 

“Potter,” Moe said, nodding curtly before sitting him down in her vacated seat and pointing her wand between his eyes in a manner that should have been threatening. 

Five minutes, a mild stinging sensation in his left ear and a crick in his neck from turning his head for Moe’s thorough inspection, he was finished. In the mirror, he saw that his adapted features were, in fact, minimal. His scar had been glamoured, his glasses removed in favour of contact lenses, his hair shortened and he had been given a hooped, golden earring. Otherwise, however, it was through his own eyes that he saw.

“Thanks Moe,” he said with a grin.

“Don’t mention it. And make sure you clean the earring, Potter. I don’t want to hear about tales of woe and infection from yet another careless Auror.”

“Will do,” he said, ambling over to where Draco was standing proud and rigid in the mirror, wearing a set of coral robes. 

“…complements your complexion too. And I added lots of pastels which ended up inadvertently matching quite swimmingly with some of Mr Potter’s wardrobe too, though I don’t think I realised at the time and—oh! Wonderful,” Aphra said upon seeing Harry. “I’ll just take your measurements, Mr Potter.” 

Aphra indicated the stool beside Malfoy and he climbed on top, watching Malfoy’s expression in the mirror change from rather disinterested to surprised, almost pleasantly so.

“Something to say, Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“Nothing of note,” he said haughtily. “I’m just relieved someone finally had the sense to chop off that insultingly tangled mane you called a hairstyle. You looked like you were wearing a drowned Acromantula on your head.”

“Well, at least I can take pride in the fact that I look like my Dad,” Harry said as a measuring tape to his right sprung to life and began winding around his waist and across his shoulder. “Not sure you could say the same.”

And there was Harry’s case prioritisation thrown out the window. 

To Harry’s surprise, however, Malfoy didn’t respond with a sarcastic retort like he had expected, or even a hex. Instead, Malfoy’s expression took on a jaded, almost wounded shade and his pale eyes caught Harry’s.

“Potter,” he said tightly, “I have renounced my father’s views and publicly apologised for my decisions during the war. However desperately you cling to the notion that nobody has changed since the War, I assure you that you’re gravely mistaken.”

Harry blinked. Malfoy’s expression was sincere, though it clearly pained him to confess this to Harry. He suddenly felt rather guilty for reverting to childhood jostling; it had always been Malfoy who initiated any provocation at Hogwarts. 

“Alright,” Harry said evenly. “But I never said that people couldn’t change, Malfoy.”

Malfoy let out a derisive laugh. “Not publicly, perhaps. But I’d bet my vault at Gringotts—not that I’d engage in anything as uncouth as gambling—that you’ve thought about it. You’ve never been able to see past first impressions, have you?”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said lowly. 

Malfoy shook his head in dismissal. “This ring any bells, Potter? Madam Malkin’s, 1991?”

Harry glanced between them and, quite abruptly, was struck by the memory of the two of them getting their Hogwarts robes fitted. Malfoy had reminded him of Dudley, with his arrogance and officiousness, and Harry had taken to answering his questioning with single syllables. 

“Yeah, I remember,” Harry said. 

Aphra returned then and handed Harry a set of navy robes with exquisite silver embroidery along the collar and cuffs, half-listening to her explanation of the defensive spells in the fabric and half-glancing at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye.


	5. Ofiara Krwi

Dinner at the Burrow was never a quiet affair, but that was especially so when Bill, Fleur and Victiore visited. After hearing that the entire family would be there (with the exception of Charlie, who was campaigning for increased funding for dragon habitats from the Romanian Ministry) Harry swung by Andromeda’s cottage to collect Teddy. She opened the door, her cheeks pink and clutching her hip from what she confessed was a stitch from chasing with Teddy in the garden. He helped her into an armchair, ignoring her protests and placed the bottle of wine he had bought for her on the coffee table.

“I’ll take him off your hands,” Harry said. “You can take the evening off.” He smiled apologetically. “I probably won’t be able to see him much over the next couple of weeks.”

Andromeda, who was pouring a glass of wine for herself and Harry, peered at him sceptically. “I hope they’re not working you too hard.”

Harry grinned. “Not as much as they did when I was a junior Auror.”

Andromeda took a long sip of her wine and sighed. Harry noticed a couple of lines in her forehead before she reached over the coffee table and produced a _Prophet_ from three days previously. 

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the IWC attack now, would it?” she said. “Because I know you’re quite keen on continuing your whole ‘saving the world’ crusade, but you can say no sometimes, Harry.”

Harry rubbed at his earlobe, where he could feel the slightly swollen skin from the new ear piercing. “I can’t, Andromeda. It’s just… there’s too much at stake for me to just walk away.”

“The DMLE have plenty of good Aurors. They won’t fill your boots but they’ll get the job done.” She peered at him carefully. “You need to carve out time for yourself, Harry. Time for your friends, time to find a partner…”

“Time for Teddy,” Harry finished. Four years at the DMLE had taken its toll and, whenever the suggestion of taking time off or leaving permanently arose, Andromeda was always the first to support it. 

“Uncle Harry!” a voice squealed. “Where are you?”

“Teddy boy!” Harry shouted, his heart lifting at the sound of racing footsteps. “I’m in the sitting room with your boring Granny who’s too tired to play anymore.”

“Then you can play with me!” Teddy exclaimed. He barrelled into the room, his hair a shade of lilac, with tiny braids at the end of a couple of strands. “You got a new haircut too!” 

“What do you think?” Harry said. He bent down so that Teddy could touch the tightly buzzed sides and floppy top, patting it like he might treat a friendly Kneazle.

“I like it! I like it better than mine,” Teddy said, frowning to himself. He then screwed up his forehead, scrunched his nose and balled his hands. Quite suddenly, the sides of his hair shrunk back until they too were shaved and the top, though still an endearing liac, was very loosely curled like Harry’s. 

Harry ruffled his hair and Teddy giggled. 

“Can you play outside with me now? Granny let me put the Plimpy eyes in the Fertiliser Potion and now I can put it on the plants by myself and they’ll grow big and strong just like me!”

Harry smiled down at him, noticing the small streak of mud down the front of his shirt as well as the grass stains on his knees. “That sounds great, Ted. But I was thinking you might like to come to the Burrow for tea with me? Baby Victoire is going to be there.”

Teddy jumped up and down frantically, as standing still couldn’t possibly contain his excitement. “Can I go, Granny?” he pleaded. 

Andromeda smiled serenely. “Run upstairs and change into something clean. Then you can go. And Harry,” she said, once Teddy had turned on his heel and bolted up the stairs, “try not to let him have second helpings of dessert. Too many sweets make him so hyper that he starts metamorphosising involuntarily. It’s a nightmare trying to get him to go to sleep.”

*

Harry was quite sure that the dinner table might collapse beneath the weight of seven Weasleys, Victoire, Fleur, Blaise, Penelope Clearwater, Hermione, Harry and Teddy, who kept reaching over the table to ladle more chocolate sauce on his ice cream. The dinner plates—filled with scrumptious shepherd’s pie, ratatouille, grilled chicken, caesar salad and creamy butternut squash soup—had been cleared away and the meal had proceeded without a hitch. It was always times like these, right before a foreign posting or an undercover case, when he truly appreciated spending time with them all. Hearing Teddy’s rambling about the crayon selection at Willowsworth Wizarding Primary School (which was apparently abysmal due to the lack of dark green for whenever he wanted to draw Harry’s Auror uniform) and Hermione’s intelligent engagement with him (complete with sympathetic hums whenever Teddy lamented his ink set that ‘Uncle Draco’ had bought Teddy for his birthday but he wasn’t allowed to bring to school) and Ron’s poorly concealed endeared expression while watching them—it was enough to make Harry miss them all before he’d even left. 

Harry was scraping his desert bowl for the final crumbs of Victoria sponge cake when a felt a presence shift behind him, a hand on the back of his chair.

“Harry—a word?” Blaise asked quietly. 

Surprised, Harry nodded. He shook his head at Hermione’s inquisitive look and followed Blaise out of the kitchen to the patio outside. There was a trunk with Wellington boots spilling out and and a long, narrow bench that they both sat on, a comfortable distance apart. The horizon beyond the picket fence at the end of the garden was magnificent; waves of light and patches of dark colour, peachy hues and blood red streaks crossing over the sky.

Harry planted his feet on the ground and wondered vaguely whether this was the first time that Blaise had asked for his private company. Ginny had begun dating Blaise the previous year, much to dismay, amusement and raised eyebrows all around. But Ginny was nothing if not independently-minded and the very blatant disapproval of a couple of friends and family members didn’t deter her from announcing her relationship. She had confessed to Harry that they were dating many months beforehand and he had tried to feel supportive but the strange churning in his gut had kept him from committing himself fully to the idea of Ginny and Blaise. 

He had separated from Ginny years previously, not long after the Death Eater trials and during a period when he couldn’t summon the energy to focus on anyone but himself and his recovery. During those couple of months, he had held to the knowledge that, one day, he would overcome his grief and be able to start afresh with Ginny. As the months turned to years, however, his thoughts of Ginny seemed to stray away from romantic or yearning. By the time she admitted that she was dating Blaise (then, in secret) Harry had almost come to terms with his feelings, even though their relationship brought his own romantic life (and the _Prophet_ ’s obsession with its insipidity) into sharper focus. 

Ginny and Blaise had first met at a charity Quidditch match between the Holyhead Harpies and the Wimbourne Wasps, where Blaise had attended as an honorary guest (which meant that he was the most generous donor). After the impressive performance (90-280) and Ginny’s spectacular display as Chaser, Blaise had admitted to buying season tickets to their games. A couple of months later, he had paid for a pitch-wide renovation on the condition that he be allowed to watch the training sessions from the stands. Ginny had been promoted to captain by that stage and, at his conditional request, had demanded to speak with him in person. 

It had taken months but, when Ginny’s suspicions that Blaise planned on sharing the Harpies’ training tactics to opposition teams proved to be unfounded, she had warmed to him. Many furtive dates, a drunken confession to Harry that Ginny thought she was falling in love, and a tense family dinner later, Blaise was fully embraced by the Weasley clan. By this stage, Harry had begun to expect him at the Weasley dinners. 

“Draco told me about the case,” Blaise said heavily, draining his glass of scotch. “Not the details, obviously, or I’d be dragged in to have my memory modified. But enough to know the stakes.”

Harry nodded, watching a streetlight twinkling in the distance. “He’s nervous, I’m guessing.”

Blaise laughed at this, full and hearty. “Absolutely bricking it. But he’ll keep a level head, you can count on that.” Blaise rolled his empty glass between his palms. “You know the thing he’s most pissed off about is that he has to keep his own identity. He doesn’t want people to think he’s reverted back to the Dark Arts, even if it’s only for a short time and even though he doesn’t care about the opinion of anyone in Felix O.”

“You think very highly of him,” Harry said, taking a long sip from his own glass. He’d poured himself a glass of lemonade rather than alcohol because he was meant to be minding Teddy but he suddenly regretted not choosing scotch instead.

“Survival instinct,” Blaise said sagely. 

Harry turned to face him, eyebrows raised. “What, you glorify the alpha male leader of the Slytherin pack in the hope that he’ll protect you?”

Blaise watched him curiously, as though he wasn’t quite sure whether Harry was joking or not. Finally, he said, “If that’s your impression of Slytherins then the case of Gryffindor indoctrination and patriotism at Hogwarts is worse than I thought. And that’s coming from Ginny’s boyfriend,” he said with a self-indulgent smile. Blaise placed the empty glass on the bench between him and Harry. “Survival instinct is to protect the pack at all costs. It’s self-defence in its most basic form; we need each other to survive and thrive. We need to be able to rest in the knowledge that fleeing or deserting is not an option, no matter how much greener the grass looks on the other side. Loyalty to a cause might be a Gryffindor value but we’re just as loyal to each other, even despite the mistakes some of us make. For those mistakes, sometimes.”

Harry glanced at Blaise, who was stretching his palms, as though yearning to feel the cool glass on them again. “You called me out here to ask me to look out for Malfoy?”

“Draco,” Blaise said quietly. “And yes. He’d hate me if he knew I was asking. But he’s proud and would never admit to needing any kind of protection or guidance.”

“Malfoy’s more than capable of handling himself,” Harry said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Blaise said. “But he hasn’t been near people like these in close to five years. And he doesn’t have an identity to hide behind. For the next however many weeks, he’s Draco Malfoy, not defying expectations anymore. He’s doing the very thing he swore he wouldn’t after those god-awful trials. And I know he’s going to loathe every second of it.”

*

The Portkey—an empty soup tin—was set to depart from Malfoy Manor at nine o’clock. The clock above the kitchen door in Harry’s flat was threatening to chime, the minute hand mere millimetres from the enormous figure 12, and Harry was decidedly late. It had taken him far longer than he had expected to reapply the transfiguration charms according to Moe’s instructions and, after spending the previous night reading and re-reading the exorbitant amount of material in the case files, he had fallen straight into bed without a second thought. Forgetting to set his alarm was one thing but leaving the case files strewn throughout his flat, beneath books and coffee mugs and inside various drawers was another problem entirely. With Aphra’s pale apricot-coloured robes unfastened, right eye contact lens burning so fiercely that he was sure his iris was bloodshot and summoned case files tucked haphazardly beneath his arm, Harry gave his apartment one last sweeping look. Harry let out a heavy sigh and, with his wand clutched in his hand, Disapparated.

The wind roamed the majestic gardens around the Manor but Harry didn’t pay the weather a second glance. He marched over the gravel, which crunched beneath his dragonhide boots, and trotted up the stone steps, paying the domineering statues and humming rose bushes no heed.

The door swung open before Harry reached it and a very bad-tempered Malfoy stood at the threshold, the empty tin in his hand. 

“I swear to Merlin, Potter, if your tardiness and general recalcitrance is going to impede this case any further I have absolutely no qualms about requesting a competent Auror to replace you,” Malfoy said severely.

Harry ignored him, grasped the other side of the can and, instantly, as though responding to his touch, the Portkey glowed. Harry barely had a second to make sure that his case papers were secure under his arm before his stomach lurched and he felt himself being lifted swiftly off the ground and thrown outwards into what felt like the abyss. He only just opened his eyes when he landed on his feet with a solid thump and felt the tin slip from his grasp. 

They were standing on a moor, where a gentle breeze was roaming and fields of heather swaying with it. About half an acre away stood a colossal enclosure, nocuous and striking against the otherwise barren landscape.

Paying Malfoy a glance to see a rather grim expression twisting his features, Harry began his march towards the nearest wall of the enclosure. He wouldn’t cast any detection spells here as they would no doubt prove ineffective against the protective enchantments. They hadn’t been briefed on how they planned on entering Felix O. Although Malfoy had sent a letter of request for admittance to the compound the previous day, he hadn’t received a response; they couldn’t even be sure that the owl he had sent was able to enter the compound with out some kind of authorisation or inspection. Before Harry could ask Malfoy whether they ought to signal their arrival, Harry felt a hand tug him by the collar. 

“What—?” he protested.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Malfoy hissed, dropping his hand like Harry’s collar had scalded him. 

“Walking to the compound,” Harry said blankly. “Unless you plan on staying out here all day.”

Malfoy pursed his thin lips. “As charming as this moor is, I wasn’t talking about where you were going.”

“What, then?”

Malfoy raised an elegant eyebrow. “Have you seen the state you’re in? I can see the DMLE stamped crest on the front of those papers under your arm so you clearly haven’t transfigured them as Fawley instructed. And your robes aren’t even fastened properly. If anyone catches a glimpse of a Muggle t-shirt our cover will be utterly blown.”

Harry scowled and clipped his robes shut before transfiguring the pieces of slightly crumpled parchment into shopping receipts. “You don’t have to tell me how to do my job, Malfoy. I was running late this morning and didn’t have a spare second, alright? I was about to do that,” he added, gesturing to the papers. 

“I should hope you were,” Malfoy said loftily. “I was under the impression that Robards valued you for your skill rather than your scar. Wouldn’t want to be disappointed in yet another good wizard who couldn’t see past the ghastly thing.”

“For your information, my scar has done nothing but make my job more difficult,” Harry muttered. 

“I’m sure,” Malfoy said. Harry couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not and chose not to respond. 

“Come on, then,” Harry said, tucking the receipts inside the small diary in the pocket of his robes. 

He hastily tapped on the Morse Wiretap (which was attached to his hip) to let Robards know that they had arrived and followed Malfoy through a well-worn path leading directly to the wrought-iron gates attached to the wall. They loomed high and daunting, at least twenty feet high. The gates possessed a faint shimmering quality that told Harry there was a great degree of magic embedded in the metalwork. 

Malfoy sighed. “They’re not dissimilar from the gates we have in the Manor. We’ll need express invitation to be admitted. It’s probably best not to provoke them by disassembling the spells.”

“Think there might be a doorbell here somewhere?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll just…” Malfoy made a broad, swiping motion between him and Harry. “ _Ecflagitatio._ ”

At once, Harry felt a cold, shuddering sensation spread from his gut. Two tiny, shadowy imprints of them both emerged and surged gracefully through the gates. 

“Entreaty for entrance,” Malfoy explained, looking intently at the gates. “It operates as the functional opposite of _Homenum Revelio_.”

Before Harry could answer, an enormous silvery light escaped from the gate, leaping exaltedly over their heads before stopping just behind them. The Patronus—a polar bear of huge stature—levelled them both with a curious stare before opening its mouth to speak in a feminine, orotund voice. 

“Entry granted to Draco Malfoy and companion. Push gate manually to open and see Admissions where you will be required to submit to a short interview.”

“Prepare yourself for an interrogation rather than an interview, Potter,” Malfoy said with gritted teeth. “And do remember that we’re quill-friends so play nicely.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem once you keep to the script,” Harry said. Pretending that he could tolerate Malfoy, Harry surmised, wouldn’t be an impossible task. He’d had to assume a variety of roles while undercover before, including a love potion smuggling case in which McNeil had posed as Harry’s heavily-dosed and infatuated lover. They had mutually decided to never speak of that case again. Instead, it was Malfoy’s acting skills about which Harry was circumspect. He wasn’t sure Malfoy would be able to look at Harry with anything but distant and disdainful eyes and a sneer. 

The polar bear bounded through the gates once again and Harry stepped forward to push it open. It moved with surprising ease and barely a squeak. Cautiously, his hand inside his robe pocket, he stepped inside and came upon a second wall, smaller this time and with a small, hand-painted sign plastered onto one of the redbricks which read ‘Welcome to Concordia. Admissions straight ahead’. 

The ground here was paved with cobblestones and there were small notices plastered to the back of the gate. Some larger signs, in block print read ‘Remember The Vow!’ while others, written on parchment, said things like ‘Unable to leave—my husband’s afraid of blowing up Diagon Alley. Predicted that his power fluctuations won’t settle for another two weeks but I have major chocolate craving. Willing to pay triple-price for original, branded Chocolate Frogs, not the generic rubbish they sell here. If interested, contact Doris Dolittle’ and ‘Blood Bond is being a pain in the neck and my partner can’t sleep at night, which is keeping me up too. Can’t live on coffee forever and desperate for a kip. Potions ingredients stores here sell everything needed for a Sleeping Draught except Flobberworm Mucus. Much appreciated if someone could pick some up. Please contact the insomniacs in the flat above The Lonely Kneazle Cafe.’

“Merlin,” Harry breathed, his eyes flitting over the signs, many of which were written in forgeign languages. 

“My sentiments precisely, Harold,” Malfoy said in a slightly strained voice.

Harry turned on his heel to see Malfoy’s gaze trained a hundred metres past the Admissions sign, where a tall, burly man was observing them. 

“Shall we?” Malfoy said in the same, tight tone. 

Harry nodded and, keeping his hand inside his pocket but his stride composed and relaxed, he walked beside Malfoy until they reached the wizard. He was standing in front of what looked like a dead-end but, when Harry looked to his right, saw a small shop-like front rooted in the red-brick wall. 

“Morning,” the burly wizard said courteously. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping in her, Mr Malfoy and…”

“Harold Auditore,” Harry said a little too eagerly. 

“This way then, Mr Auditore.”

Harry exchanged a fleeting glance with Malfoy, who was smoothing down the front of his robes fastidiously.

“Stop fussing,” Harry said between gritted teeth. “Looks suspicious.”

“Oh, you do flatter me, Harold,” Malfoy said loudly, his tone light but eyes steely. “I bought them in Madam Malkin’s last season.” 

Harry plastered on a smile that probably looked like more of a grimace, caught the burly wizard watching them, and followed him inside the Admissions office.

Harry was surprised to find that the office was warm and pleasant, if rather sparse. There was a small, empty waiting area and a long desk, behind which a sign read ‘Concordia: Unity, Power, Piety’.

“You will have an interview and introduction meeting shortly,” the burly wizard said. “You can register with the goblin. I warn you that he’s rather tetchy at this time of the morning.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, following Malfoy to the desk, where they saw a goblin with a curling lip and very long, thin fingers hunched over a piece of parchment. 

“Ah, Mr Malfoy,” the goblin said, flashing his tiny, pointed teeth. “Yes, I received your entry request. Take a form and fill it out. Your companion too,” he added, sparing Harry a glance. Harry saw the goblin roll his eyes when his gaze landed on Harry’s earring and he vaguely wondered whether Bill Weasley knew him. 

Harry accepted the sheet of parchment from the goblin, but had been provided no ink or quill. Before he could ask for either, Harry saw the goblin shake his head.

“You must speak aloud. We tend to find that our visitors find it easier to write the lies rather than voicing them aloud. And lies will not be accepted.” His mouth stretched into a wide, malicious smile, as though taking personal, vindictive pleasure at the thought of hearing Harry and Malfoy speak aloud for his enjoyment. “The parchment will write at your command.”

Taking the sheet, Harry and Malfoy walked over to the furthest pair of seats in the corner of the waiting area. It was quite a narrow room, however, and Harry was under the distinct impression that the goblin would still be able to hear them. 

“I must admit that the administration is highly organised,” Malfoy said. His eyes scanned the long list of questions. “And thorough.”

“I suppose they have to weed out people who aren’t fully committed to the idea,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes at a number of the more intrusive questions about his political opinions, religious views and details of the first time he performed underage magic.

“Probably wise,” Draco said. Then, in a clear, commanding voice, he said, “Draco Lucius Malfoy; male; pureblood; twenty-three; fifth of June, 1980.” 

Instantly, an artistic script appeared along the blank lines, filling out the questions on Draco’s sheet of paper. Harry followed instantly, his mind reeling at a number of questions at which he fabricated answers that the case file hadn’t provided him explicit details on. It took him slightly longer than Malfoy to answer his questions but, thankfully, Malfoy’s clipped voice slowed down so that their voices would overlap until they had both finished, making it more difficult for the goblin to discern their every word. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, Harry and Malfoy answered the last question (‘What is your purpose for coming to Concordia and do you intend to accept a Colingo Magicae blood bond, should you be offered such a privilege?).

“The pursuit of academic knowledge. Undecided.”

“To find my parents and accompany a… friend,” Harry said, glancing at Draco who nodded almost imperceptibly. “And undecided.”

The pieces of parchment folded in on themselves until they were pocket square-sized and landed neatly on the goblin’s desk. 

“We should have answered in the negative,” Harry said quietly. 

“No,” Draco said, not looking at Harry. “They’d restrict our access if we said no. Better to keep them on their toes and anticipating a change of heart.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said tightly. “If we plant the idea in their head that we want to take a blood oath, they’ll expect us to follow through.”

“Which we obviously won’t be doing, Harold.” 

Harry felt a surge of annoyance in his chest. “We won’t be given free reign if that’s the case,” he muttered furiously. “We’ll be monitored and kept inside the compound.”

“All the better,” Malfoy said, eyes flashing. “The more time spent here, the quicker our work is completed and the sooner this ordeal is over with.”

“Your interviewer is awaiting your arrival now,” the goblin said in a low, carrying voice. 

“Thank you,” Malfoy said crisply, striding past Harry and towards the door to the goblin’s left that had just materialised. 

Still irritated but determined not to let it show on his expression, Harry marched over to Malfoy. 

The door swung inwards and a second room, airy and bright, with a view of a particularly bountiful field of heather, was revealed. Behind them, the two forms that they had completed zoomed above their heads and settled neatly on the desk beside the window. A witch stood there, blonde hair almost as light as Draco’s but with round cheeks and catlike eyes. 

“Damoclina Rowle,” she said, shaking hands with them both, but keeping her gaze trained on Malfoy. “I believe you had the misfortune of spending time in the company of my brother, Thorfinn, while you were in the company of the Dark Lord.”

“Yes, the murdering swine,” Draco said coolly. “Most unfortunate when family members tarnish the family name like that. Doesn’t tend to do much in the way of popularity.”

Harry tried to conceal his surprise, choking down a laugh which ended up sounding like a strangled cough.

“Quite,” Rowle said, her lips turning upwards slightly. “Take a seat.”

Harry did so, his face burning and as his throat burned from the effort of not launching into a coughing fit.

“So, do tell me who you are exactly,” she said, peering over at Harry’s form, “Mr Auditore.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “Of course,” he said hoarsely. “I was raised by British parents in southern Asia—India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka—and received a magical education under their tutelage. My mother knows Ma— Draco’s mother and, when we were quite young—”

“Seven, I believe,” Malfoy said.

Harry’s head twisted quickly towards Malfoy but he recovered. “Er, yes, I think so,” he said. “When we were seven our mothers arranged for us to begin corresponding. As quill-friends.”

“I see,” Rowle said. “And you intend to take a blood bond with Mr Malfoy, I presume.”

“Well—”

“Perhaps,” Malfoy interjected. “But, as you can see from the rather excessive forms we were tasked with completing, I am here for academic reasons primarily. And Harold here has reason to believe that his parents are here in the compound.”

She winced. “We do try not to refer to Concordia as a compound, if you don’t mind, Mr Malfoy. It sounds distastefully impersonal. And we don’t have any Auditores here,” she added. 

Harry affected extreme disappointment—he was supposed to have just heard that his parents were missing—but, again, Rowle’s eyes were fixed on Malfoy rather than him so the spot of rather splendid acting went unnoticed. 

“I do find it unusual,” Rowle continued, “that you bring a close friend and confidante of sixteen years to a place such as this without any intention of partaking in the proceedings themselves.”

“I never said that I didn’t have any intention to do so,” Malfoy said quickly. “I merely would like to analyse such ‘proceedings’ beforehand. I am well within my rights to be sceptical, am I not?” he said, affecting the kind of loftiness that Harry was familiar with from his days at Hogwarts. “Especially considering the rather abysmal spectacle at the IWC assembly not a week ago.”

At this, Rowle’s wide cheeks turned a deep shade of pink and she lowered her gaze. “I understand completely, Mr Malfoy,” she said. Though not obsequious, Harry noticed that she looked rather chastised by Malfoy’s comment and Harry couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Marvelous,” Malfoy said flatly. 

Rowle remained silent. Then, producing her wand and waving it lazily, the two pieces of parchment soared above her head and collided with the window pane, which made a strange whirring noise before absorbing the parchment. The window pane rippled, as though made of water, and blurred the view outside for a second. 

“Well,” Rowle said, standing to her feet. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll give you a brief tour of Concordia.” She opened the office door again but this time, instead of bringing them back to the waiting room, it opened directly onto a bustling street, alive with people and colour. Harry’s eyes darted around him and he struggled to keep up with Rowle and Malfoy, so busy was he trying to absorb every detail about the place.

Far from the Knockturn Alley-esque town he had envisaged, the street—Bluebow Boulevard, Rowle supplied—was bright, filled with quaint shops and restaurants and packed with witches and wizards. Harry surveyed the faces, hoping to catch any familiar ones—from the Wanted and Missing posters in Robards’ office or otherwise—but Rowle was marching quickly ahead and he didn’t have time to linger. People were speaking in foreign languages all around him; he could hear owls hooting and the distant sounds of the Weird Sisters’ most recent single being played. It could have been Diagon Alley on the last day in August except for the lack of children. Around him were vivid colours and beaming faces, surges of magic and activity from outside shopfronts and bunting that exploded with tiny confetti every few seconds.

“Is there some kind of festival on?” Harry asked.

“Oh, yes,” Rowle said, guiding them past a group of wizards who were laughing raucously. “A new batch of witches and wizards were given the final green flag that their magical abilities were stabilised. It takes four weeks on average for the bond to settle to a manageable level, though we have many outliers.”

“So can all of those people can leave Concordia now?” Harry said.

“Yes, in theory,” Rowle said, though she didn’t elaborate.

They reached the end of the street, which arched into a network of quieter streets, some with large, unmarked buildings and others with modest houses and cottages. 

“Witches and wizards who decide to proceed with the bond are required to reside here,” Rowle said, gesturing to the houses. “And those participants must be monitored and advised by our potioneers and experts for their own safety as well as others’.”

“And where do such monitoring processes take place?” Malfoy asked.

“That depends on a number of factors,” she said airily. “They will be discussed with you once you commit to the bond.”

Harry could sense that her patience was wearing thin.

“We respect our inhabitants’ privacy when possible but, due to the nature of the Colingo Magicae blood bond, we have to take certain precautions. As I mentioned, we monitor magical activity and bond progression but, during their stay here, we must also conduct random searches of our occupants’ dwellings to ensure maximum safety.” She smiled sernely. “Please feel free to explore but keep in mind that the restricted access areas are prohibited. Should you try to force entry into such places, you will be ejected from Concordia with immediate effect.”

“Duly noted,” Malfoy said, almost smiling. Harry vaguely wondered whether it was out of fear or genuine amusement. 

“How can we legitimately gain access to those areas?” Harry asked before he could stop himself.

She blinked at him. “I’m afraid legitimacy alone won’t let you access those areas unless your presence there is desired.”

Though Harry was desperate to ask “Desired by whom?” he managed to keep his mouth shut. 

“Access requires desire,” Malfoy said. “So then what does desire require?” 

Rowle ignored him. “If you would like to meet some of our potioneers for your… research, Mr Malfoy, a general overview of the nature and processes of the bond we offer can be seen in the Selwyn Centre for Information.”

Malfoy made a small noise. “I gather that this place is fully accessible.”

“It is,” she said, smiling vacantly. “Please enjoy your time at Concordia and do let us know once you’ve decided to consent to the Colingo Magicae bond.”

With that, Rowle smiled in a pained sort of way and Disapparated, leaving Harry and Malfoy alone and vigilant. 


	6. Vendimet

Before Malfoy could speak, Harry pulled out his wand and swiped it through the air between them, muttering a complex Detection Charm to ensure that Rowle hadn’t placed any Tracking Spells on them. The blue light glowed faintly for a moment and then burst into very small shreds of lights, like singed parchment, and fell to the cobblestoned path.

“Nothing,” Harry said in response to Malfoy’s expectant, raised eyebrow. “But she’s suspicious.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said tightly. “I shouldn’t have said I was here for academic reasons,” he said angrily. “Rowle probably thinks I’m planning on stealing Concordia’s secret.”

“Why would she think that?” Harry said. “ _Hostis Revelio_ ,” he muttered. The tip of his wand glowed crimson, indicating that enemies or hostile figures were nearby. Though the street was almost deserted (apparently most of the Concordia residents were on Bluebow Boulevard or inside their houses), Harry cast the spells surreptitiously beneath his cloak. 

“Difficult to say,” Malfoy said. “That’s all I can gather from how secretive she was being.” He made an irritated sound. “Perhaps she thinks I’m going to set up some sort of rival blood bond potion if she reveals enough information.”

Harry considered this, stowing his wand back in his pocket. “That makes sense. And if you agreed to the Concordia bond, she’ll see you as being a bit more loyal to her organisation.”

Malfoy made a faint noise of agreement.

They both stood there for a moment as a gentle breeze picked up around them. Harry desperately wanted to continue exploring the compound but Malfoy wouldn’t meet his gaze. Finally, Harry tapped out a message to Robards on his Morse Wiretap, assuring him that they were inside Concordia and alive. Then, turning on his heel, Harry began marching back towards the Bluebow Boulevard.

“Where do you think you’re going, Potter?” Malfoy said urgently.

Harry glanced back to find Malfoy striding after him. “I’m going to ask around and learn a bit more about this place.”

“You can’t just start interrogating random wizards,” Malfoy huffed.

“I’m not going to interrogate them,” he said defensively. “I know how to do my job, Malfoy.” Harry planned on blending in with the crowd, asking a few basic, innocuous questions about the place, the people involved and where they received their funding.

“I should hope so,” Malfoy said snidely. “I’m not wandering by myself the first day we’re here, though. It might attract the wrong kind of attention. And I certainly don’t want any of the potioneers to assume me too eager to begin my research.”

“Fine,” Harry said, speaking louder as the sounds of trumpets ringing and chatter from Bluebow Boulevard were carried towards them. “You talk to some of them about the effects of the potion and see if it can help you figure out what’s involved and who their suppliers are.” 

“Look who’s telling whom how to do their job now,” Malfoy said, but there wasn’t much bite in his tone. 

They ambled down the street, venturing into the throngs of people, and Harry noticed a few heads turn in their direction, caught a few exchanged glances and hands covering mouths. From the sheer number of foreign witches and wizards, however, Harry doubted that Malfoy would be recognised too widely. The Death Eater trials received international media coverage five years ago but Malfoy’s trial certainly hadn’t been the most publicised. After the revelation of Harry’s evidence given in Malfoy’s defence was leaked to the _Prophet_ , however, Harry had spent weeks shouldering off journalists who wanted statements and interviews about it. 

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked, inclining his head towards a convivial pub, ‘The Wise Owl’, where there was a chorus of uproarious chatter and lively music. A pub was an ideal place for them to join a conversation and get answers in the quiet, furtive way many didn’t expect, especially after a couple of drinks. 

“Not particularly. I, unlike you, got up at a practical time this morning, leaving myself ample time for breakfast.”

“Well, too bad,” Harry said. “I’m starving for a full English.” He gave Malfoy’s elbow a tug and pulled him inside the pub. 

“Really, Harold,” Malfoy said, pulling his elbow from Harry’s loose grip. “I’m not a show Kneazle. You don’t have to drag me in order to have me follow you.”

“Then come inside with me so I don’t have to resort to that,” Harry said absently. “I’ll buy you a Butterbeer.”

Harry ignored Malfoy’s mumbed “It’s far too early for Butterbeer,” and pushed the door open.

They walked inside and found a bright, circular room with wood-panelled walls and a huge cluster of witches and wizards, some dotted around at the small, rickedy tables while others were seated around the bar area. An enormous chalkboard hung behind the bar, where the menu was listed in slanted writing and kept erasing words and adding others whenever people shouted questions about the soup of the day and how spicy the ‘Chef’s Extra Spicy Curry’ really was. 

“Let’s sit at the bar. More people,” Harry said quietly. 

He and Malfoy made their way over and took the two empty seats between a witch not older than them with expensive-looking turquoise robes and a wizard who was nursing a small vat of Firewhiskey and wearing a mournful expression. Harry startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder but then realised that it was Malfoy’s—he had pushed Harry onto the bar stool beside the wizard.

Harry needn’t have worried about striking a conversation with someone, however, as the witch rounded on them immediately. 

“Well, hello,” she said, looking between them with unabashed curiosity. “I don’t believe I’ve seen either of you around. New residents, are you?”

“Er, something like that,” Harry said, smiling at her.

“I’m Summer and this is Aizzah, my bond partner,” she said shifting back in her chair so that they could see a petite witch beside her. Harry noticed that Summer had a glazed sheen in her dark eyes and slurred her words slightly. 

“Nice to meet you both,” Aizzah said in a heavy Newcastle accent. She was fully alert, Harry noticed, and was sipping a glass of orange juice.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, shaking hands with them both.

Harry watched them both carefully. Summer looked entirely unaffected by this revelation but Aizzah’s eyes flashed and Harry noticed her shift her posture and lean slightly closer to Summer.

“And this is Harold Auditore,” Malfoy added.

Harry reached over Malfoy—who sighed in annoyance—to shake their hands. Before he could, however, Summer let out a high, blithe laugh. 

“What are you, eighty?” she barked. “People actually call you Harold?” She winked lasciviously in Draco’s direction. “Bet that’s a real turn on in the bedroom,” she said before laughing uproariously, as though the prospect of a Harold ever being shagged was the most preposterous thing in the world. 

There was a momentary, fraught silence until what Summer had suggested struck Harry like a Bludger to the head.

Harry’s eyes bulged. “We’re not—no. Not together. No.” He let out a tense, humourless laugh that he hadn’t known he was capable of making. 

“Absolutely not,” Draco said, looking scandalised and slightly frightened by the mere suggestion. 

“And some people call me Harry,” he said as an afterthought. He realised that he found Draco referring to him as Harold slightly unsettling too. Draco glared at him, his body turned towards Harry so that the witches couldn’t decipher his expression. With the extent of the transfiguration and his change in surname—not to mention the fact that he was accompanied by Draco Malfoy—Harry doubted that a small adjustment to his name would carry much significance. 

Summer, who had been giggling and singing “Harold and Malfoy” to the tune of Weird Sisters’ new song, ‘Apothecary’, as though it were some hilarious joke, settled down when Aizzah placed a hand on her right shoulder and whispered something in her ear. The effect was instant; Summer fell silent and folded her hands in her lap, peering between Malfoy and Harry. 

“I love the earring, Harold,” Aizzah said abruptly, clearly desperate to make conversation without drawing attention to Summer. “Very chic. Where’d you get it?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Er,” he said, “it’s my mother’s.” He thought he heard Malfoy make a quiet snorting noise. To his surprise, however, Aizzah smiled at him.

“That’s sick,” Aizzah said, looking directly at Harry but maintaining a hand on Summer’s shoulder. “I love vintage jewelry too.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of why I’m here,” Harry said, sensing his opening. “To find her. My parents have been missing for a couple of weeks and I thought they might have come here.”

Aizzah frowned but she looked less concerned and more surprised. “Auditore, you said? I haven’t met any here and we know almost everyone at least to speak to.”

“So how many people are here, then?” Harry pressed.

“I reckon about one hundred and fifty.”

Harry let out a long breath. “It must have taken a while to get to know everyone, then,” she said. “How long have you been here for?”

“Two months,” Aizzah said. She rubbed Summer’s right shoulder, peering intently at Harry. “But going back to what you said earlier, is finding your parents really the only reason you’ve come to Concordia? Surely you’d want to give them some privacy if you really believe they’re here.”

Harry leaned forward. “What do you mean?” he asked, smiling at her in a way he hoped was politely interested rather than manic to hear more.

“Well, it can be quite a private matter, sometimes,” Aizzah said evenly. “Not so much between bond partners who aren’t in a romantic relationship but, for those of us who are, it’s a rather intimate time. Apart from the safety element, that’s part of the reason Concordia is so excluded from the outside world. We can understand the blood bond in a private place and can seek any help we need if something happens to… go wrong.”

Summer glanced up at this, the glazed look now gone from her eyes. Harry saw that Aizzah had removed her hand from Summer’s shoulder and wondered vaguely how Aizzah had managed to exercise such a level of control over her.

Malfoy, who hadn’t said anything until now, turned his gaze to the two witches. “And do inaccuracies often occur in the bond?” he asked with a very well constructed frown of concern. 

Aizzah shook her head. “It just takes some time to get used to,” she said. “At the beginning, the power imbalance is hard, because we’re both aware which of us is stronger and weaker in terms of magical ability. And some,” she said, speaking almost contemplatively now, “need to take quite a while to adjust to their adapting magical levels.”

Draco made a small noise of sympathy. “I’d imagine that it’s draining for someone of such magical prowess to lose some of their magical abilities only to have them transferred to their partner.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Aizzah said sharply, her expression suddenly hard and inscrutable. “And even if that is the case for some couples, _both_ of their magical abilities increase with time. When the intermission period takes place, some days you’ll wake up with far more magical control than your partner and other days neither of you can do more than _Accio_ the object nearest to you. Eventually, the magical signature rights itself and you both possess the same, increased level of magical ability. It just takes time.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said patiently.

Aizzah looked between them both with her mouth drawn in a tight line. “Summer, I think we should go back to the flat now.”

“I think we should go back to the flat now too,” Summer said quietly and, without pausing to pay either Harry or Malfoy a second glance, walked directly towards the door.

“Nice to meet you both,” Aizzah said distractedly and, throwing three Galleons on the bar counter, trotted after Summer. 

Harry exchanged a dark look with Malfoy but neither of them deigned to comment in case they were being watched. 

“Butterbeer, then, M—Draco?” Harry said, waving down the bartender.

“Full English breakfast, actually,” Malfoy said heavily, reaching into his pocket to extract a small, Muggle notebook and starting to scratch away with an eagle feather quill in his long, swooping script. 

Harry, suppressing a smile, nodded. 

*

The following few hours told Harry very little about the inner-workings and clandestine architects of Concordia but quite a lot about the kind of people Concordia attracted. Most of his time was devoted to visiting each of the shops along Bluebow Boulevard, Malfoy in tow, and speaking to anyone they could to try to divulge more information about the compound. According to most people, there were somewhere between one and two hundred residents who had taken or were preparing to take the blood bond, though there were many non-residents—the potioneers, as far as they could tell—who worked but didn’t live there. The compound was slightly larger than Hogsmeade, with magnificent trees lining most streets, the leaves crisp and golden, and bright, picturesque shops selling some of the most unusual magical objects Harry had even seen. 

Though the compound was the size of a large village, the witches and wizards seemed to be constantly busy. Some worked at the shops or restaurants themselves, others contributing to the _Concordia Chronicle_ newspaper while many more—those who hadn’t taken the bond yet or those bond had settled—were tasked with venturing into the outside magical world to maintain stocks. Almost every witch or wizard insisted that Harry and Malfoy visit Magorian Lake near the far-reaching outskirts around where the most expensive properties and the potion production buildings stood. 

The people they spoke to were mostly couples—they were certainly the least suspicious of Harry and Malfoy’s questions—though Harry recognised a number of Dark Artifact collectors throughout the compound. They had received disciplinary actions but their crimes hadn’t been enough to warrant a cell in Azkaban. Malfoy, too, mentioned recognising a few international potioneers, many of whom nodded respectfully at them when they crossed paths. When Harry had demanded to know why Malfoy didn’t strike a conversation with one of them, Draco had merely shook his head.

“I’m an outsider here,” he said quietly as they made their way through a quaint, dusty bookshop with a small cafe attached. “They’re all fully aware that I haven’t been accepted as a contributing potioneer here and, until I am, or am able to provide something useful they need to improve the potion, they wouldn’t dare spill any of Concordia’s secrets.”

“So can you? Provide something useful, I mean,” Harry asked as they sidled through a narrow path between two teetering bookshelves on either side.

“Possibly. I’ll certainly need time and my theories are nowhere near as refined as they would need to be given that I’ve only gathered this much,” he gave the notebook a little pat, “from small hints the residents here have unknowingly provided.”

“How much time?”

“As much as I need,” Malfoy snapped.

Harry sighed and sidled past Malfoy. They wordlessly agreed to take the corner table in the almost empty cafe, a small room with strange, spiralling patterns on the ceiling that swirled high above them. Harry sat down heavily and tapped a message to Robards on his Morse Wiretap, advising him that he would be in the Ministry in half an hour to provide a full report. Harry noticed that Malfoy’s eyes—light and watchful—kept following the other people in the room, as though afraid of some imminent attack. Although Harry certainly wasn’t in a position to start lecturing Malfoy on paranoia, the idea of Malfoy spending the next couple of weeks constantly on the edge of his seat was rather unsettling. 

“What do you plan on doing while I conduct more research into the nature of the potion?” Malfoy asked tensely, keeping his voice very low.

Harry sighed. “Find people who’ve been here for some time and know the operation of things. My main priority right now is assessing just how big this operation is and who’s involved. Judging from what we’ve seen today, the people getting the blood bond are pretty much kept in the dark; they don’t know why changes to their magical abilities have to happen in order for the bond to settle. I also want to find out more about how people learn about Concordia.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at this. “The DMLE didn’t know anything about Concordia until now?” 

“No. Not before the IWC attack.”

Malfoy made a vaguely interested noise. “Surprising. I would have thought that you might’ve been aware of some disappearances.”

“We were,” Harry said defensively. “But we didn’t realise that they had gone willingly. Or that they were here, together. Concordia’s very well concealed and the disappearances didn’t seem to be linked; they happened over months and loads of the people here are outside the DMLE’s purview because they’re not all from Britain.”

“I see,” Malfoy said. He opened his mouth to speak again but Harry then noticed a waitress approaching them both, a slightly bored expression on her face. Harry noticed that she kept touching her shoulder.

“Can I get you anything?” the waitress asked. 

“Cappuccino,” Draco said.

“Er, make that two, please,” Harry said.

She smiled but made no move to walk away. Instead, the waitress’s right arm went completely rigid, palm slapping against her thigh as though she had completely lost control over her movements. Her eyes, previously distracted, flashed, as though struck by a sudden, dread-inducing thought.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked cautiously. 

She smiled tightly and nodded. “Perfectly fine,” she said. “If you’ll just give me one moment I’ll bring you the cappuccinos.”

With that, the waitress wheeled around and walked with short, hurried footsteps over to the barista countertop. 

Silently, and sending a warning glance at Malfoy not to follow him, Harry rose from his chair and walked over to the countertop. He need not have worried about the waitress noticing him as she faced the opposite direction, head lowered and entirely preoccupied. Harry slipped his wand out of his pocket and edged closer. He realised quite quickly that the waitress was struggling to hold her wand in her left hand. Her right arm was still paralysed and stuck against her side and, peering closer, Harry saw that her left hand was shaking. 

The waitress had pointed her wand to her right shoulder, pressing the tip firmly and muttering something in a small, almost whimpering voice.

A moment later, the door opened with a bang and was followed by a loud clatter, as though someone had knocked down a bookshelf. Harry stepped to the side, shoving his wand back into his pocket but keeping it grasped firmly in his hand. 

The barista had turned around at the sound and Harry saw relief flood her expression, letting out a gentle sigh and hurrying out from behind the counter. 

Harry stepped backwards, grappling behind him to pick up a menu in case anyone noticed his presence, but kept his eyes trained on the waitress. 

Instantly, a tall, bearded man came barrelling through the bookshelves and almost collided with the waitress in his haste to get to her. 

“I told you not to—” he said anxiously, holding her hands and staring at her with the kind of concern Harry recognised from Mrs Weasley at the dinner table whenever he was surrounded by happy couples and he sat alone, usually taking a long sip of Firewhiskey. 

“I know, I know,” she said in a terrified voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” he muttered. “It’s not your fault.” 

Neither of them had noticed Harry there and he silently thanked Aphra for providing him with mahogany robes that blended excellently with the wood-panelling. 

“I need you to… I can’t work if you don’t—”

“I know,” the man said. He glanced up then but his eyes swept past Harry (who had buried his head in an upside-down menu) and, apparently not deigning him any threat, the man took out his wand. Harry peered over the menu and saw the man press his wand to the waitress’s shoulder and a thin beam of light shot from the end, illuminating her neck and right arm. There was a faint shuffling noise and the man snapped his wand away, ending the spell.

The waitress whispered something that Harry couldn’t hear but he saw the man nod, a resigned look on his face.

“It won’t make a difference,” she said firmly. “Just go. My shift ends in an hour.”

The man certainly looked reluctant from where Harry was standing but, with a severe look from the waitress, he turned sheepishly and left the cafe.

“Oh!” the waitress exclaimed, and Harry saw that she had noticed his presence. “Your cappuccinos, I’m so sorry.” 

“Er, don’t worry about it,” Harry said, lowering the menu and stepping closer to the counter.

The waitress began to bustle around, right hand wielding her wand expertly and cups and saucers flying overhead. 

“I actually… understand,” Harry said quietly, hoping very much that the waitress would latch onto this and reveal something further about the nature of the blood bond.

Her movements stopped abruptly and she fixed him with wide eyes. “Really?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’s been—er—really difficult.”

She nodded earnestly. “I know how you feel. It’s so unpredictable. We only bonded two weeks ago and they—that is to say, Higglebound and the rest of the Officiators—warned us that it might be unstable for a while. But,” she said, sighing, “I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to be completely drained of magical ability one minute and then have more power than I could possibly imagine the next.”

Harry’s head was spinning with every word. He nodded frantically, desperate for her to continue talking.

“And how do you… cope with losing your magical abilities?” he said.

She dropped her gaze to the countertop and levitated a cup of sugar and a pot of milk onto the tray. “The same way that you just saw. My husband can restore them with a spell, but that in turn makes him feel weaker. I hate asking him to do it.” She sighed. “Higglebound suggested that it would be more difficult between some couples when there was huge disparity between their magical abilities but I never expected it to be this extreme.”

Harry nodded, his mind reeling at the information. “So, if your husband wasn’t willing to restore your abilities…”

“I can’t even think about what might happen,” she said in a very shrunken voice. “That’s why Concordia wants to make sure that you and your bond partner are faithful to each other or faithful to a common cause. So that everyone is willing to help their partner during the adjustment period.”

“But it will even out,” Harry said, trying for comfort, though his voice sounded slightly too eager to his own ears. “You’ll have equal power after that.”

The waitress nodded and levitated the tray, sending it catering across the room and around the corner, presumably to his and Malfoy’s table. 

“Yes,” she said. “But everyone in Concordia has to be patient so that they can be rewarded in time.” She said this as though reciting a prayer, as though it had been ingrained in her thoughts, something that let her sleep soundly at night. 

Harry nodded, another question on his tongue, but she sighed.

“Your cappuccino is waiting. I’ll let you get back to your bond partner.”

Harry nodded, didn’t correct her and reluctantly left the barista countertop. It wouldn’t do to probe where she evidently wasn’t comfortable. When he returned to their table, Malfoy—who hadn’t touched his cappuccino—was glaring murderously at Harry. 

“What in the name of Merlin were you thinking?” Malfoy hissed. 

“Listening,” Harry said, picking up his cappuccino and revelling in the way Malfoy seemed, for once, to be lost for words that might adequately describe his fury. 

“That much was obvious,” Malfoy said testily. He leaned forward and levelled Harry with a look that was somehow both derisive and angry. “I would have thought that even an incompetent Auror would have the wherewithal to eavesdrop so blatantly.”

“Are you suggesting I’m not a competent Auror, Malfoy?” 

“Absolutely, if standing in plain sight and staring stupidly at a possible lead is your preferred method of evidence-gathering.”

“First of all, I don’t stare stupidly,” Harry said, rather indignant and willing his expression to match Malfoy’s glare. “And believe it or not, I’m far more adept at my job than you think.”

“You’ll have to convince me, _Harry_ ,” Malfoy said, lip curling at the name. He had severely chastised Harry for his comment to Summer and Aizzah that Malfoy called him ‘Harry’, despite Harry’s protests that neither of them had considered his—very common—name in any great depth, what with Summer being essentially inebriated and Aizzah utterly distracted. 

“Alright then,” Harry said, sitting up. “Come back to the Ministry with me. I have to leave in ten minutes to give Robards my report anyway. I can show you my memory there.” 

“Fine,” Malfoy said, nodding as though reassuring himself. “But we have to stop at the Manor first. Sullivan has requested to discuss theories about the mechanism of the potion first.”

They left fifteen minutes later, after Harry had spent time wondering whether he would have time to drop Teddy to Willowsworth the following morning. During that time, they had drunk their lukewarm and revoltingly foamy cappuccinos and Malfoy had buried himself in his notebook, writing intently and making thoughtful noises every so often, drawing criss-crossing arrows across the page whenever he did so.

“Where did you get that anyway?” Harry asked after they had paid and were strolling back down Bluebow Boulevard. 

It was blissfully quiet, the other people there subdued and a chilly wind fluttering the trees and turning their cheeks pink. The sky, too, had dulled to a purple-infused grey, overcast with hidden moon and light blazing from the fires inside the flats above the shops. Harry pulled his robes tightly around him and glanced to where Draco was stowing his notebook in his pocket. 

“A stationery shop in London,” Malfoy said, fastening his robes and shivering as a particularly fierce wind sent a cluster of leaves whirling into the air. 

“I thought you wouldn’t be caught dead using Muggle commodities,” Harry muttered. 

They rounded the corner and made their way towards the Admissions door inside the red brick wall at the end of the lane. Harry and Malfoy had agreed that leaving through the main entrance before Disapparating would look least suspicious and, as Harry had suggested, there might be some kind of tracking mechanism in the Concordia compound that might signal their departure to the Ministry of Magic.

“You presumed wrong,” Malfoy said, avoiding his eye. “I find pen and paper far more useful than parchment. And it’s rather a pain to carry a bottle of ink around with me wherever I go.”

Harry was distinctly surprised by this answer and made a faint noise. He suddenly remembered what Teddy had said at the Burrow the previous night.

“Teddy said you bought him a set of inks for his birthday.”

Malfoy abruptly stopped in his tracks and caught Harry’s eye, looking slightly nonplussed. He recovered in an instant, however, and composed himself, meeting Harry’s strides.

“Did he tell you that?” Malfoy asked in an even voice.

“Yeah. He was with me yesterday evening at the Burrow.” Harry grinned. “He said they wouldn’t let him use the inks at Willowsworth in case the other kids got jealous.”

Malfoy smiled at this, looking self-satisfied in a way that Harry was familiar with from Hogwarts. It was extremely disorienting to see Malfoy smile at the thought of Teddy, however, and Harry found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

They passed through the Admissions office, breathing in the warm, stuffy air before emerging on the other side of the red brick wall to where the poster-covered gate stood. 

“ _Alohomora_ ,” Harry said, pointing his wand at the gate. It sprang to life and swung open, revealing the huge expanse of moorland, looking more deserted beneath the darkening sky. They set off at a healthy pace to outside the perimeter of the compound until they could no longer see its outline. 

“I advised Aunt Andromeda to get Teddy a private tutor,” Malfoy said after a moment, “but she insisted that Willowsworth would do him some good, especially in the way of social interaction with children his own age.”

“Yeah, I told her that,” Harry said, grinning. “You can’t expect Andromeda to mind him all day either.”

“I suppose he is rather energetic,” Malfoy conceded. 

Harry’s chest suddenly felt much lighter, less constricted beneath his robes despite the fact that he was climbing a hilly part of the moor and panting lightly. 

“Do you see Teddy a lot?” Harry asked, trying for nonchalance. 

“When I can,” Malfoy said evasively. “After my mother and Andromeda reconciled, they felt that exposing Teddy to as many relatives as possible would be best. Partly, I believe, because Andromeda knew what family estrangement felt like and didn’t want Teddy to experience the same but, mostly, to surround him with as many parental figures she could find.”

There was a warmth in Harry’s chest at this thought and, strangely, he felt very pleased that Draco was able to acknowledge Teddy’s circumstances. Harry knew just how isolating it was to grow up without any kind of parental substitute. Until he met Sirius, he hadn’t met an adult (besides a few of his professors) who only ever had his best interests at heart, without any ulterior motive. The thought that Teddy was surrounded by more people who cared about him than Harry had initially thought left him feeling ecstatic.

It was then that Harry noticed he had been standing in the middle of a moor, grasping Malfoy’s forearm and waiting for him to Disapparate. Malfoy was looking at him with a peculiar expression; the thin line of his mouth was inscrutable but his eyes were narrowed. Surprisingly, they weren’t narrowed maliciously, but rather curiously, as though waiting for Harry to say something else. When Harry raised an eyebrow, however, Malfoy snatched his gaze away and, without warning, Harry felt a familiar lurch in his stomach as they Disapparated. 

Malfoy had brought him to the front gates of the Manor, where two high, manicured hedges bracketed a wrought iron gate that could rival that of Concordia’s main entrance. 

“Oh, my!”

Harry turned around and spotted Eleanor Sullivan, the modern lethal potions use expert, leaping into the air with surprise and sending her pile of parchment scattering over the gravel. 

“My apologies,” Malfoy said. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Not at all,” Sullivan said breathlessly, whipping out her wand. “I was just about to send a message that I’d arrived via the Morse Wiretap.” The disparate papers on the gravel fluttered into a neat pile, her portmanteau snapped open and the parchment soared inside. 

“I hope you don’t mind, Ms Sullivan, but Potter insisted on accompanying me here,” Malfoy said, waving his wand lazily. The gates dissolved into smoke and they stepped over the threshold. 

“Eleanor, please,” she insisted. “And it’s really not a problem.”

“I didn’t insist on anything,” Harry said belatedly and without much bite. Memories of the last time—over five years ago—he was here struck him and he found his steady stride faltering. 

“I’ve compiled the most prominent theories about the nature of the bond from the information you sent me today through the Wiretap but I’m afraid that recognising the presence of particular ingredients is going to prove rather difficult until we get more intel,” Eleanor said, trotting to keep up with Malfoy. 

Darkness suited the Manor, Harry thought, as the rushing wind drowned out Eleanor and Malfoy’s discussion ahead. The ominous crunch of gravel beneath their feet; the keen, splendid moon high above them—the sky was cloudless in Wiltshire—and the chilling sensation that crept up Harry’s neck and had nothing to do with the wind. 


	7. Uncovered

The Manor came into view, magnificent and imposing, with Gothic style windows and an archway that led to the front steps Harry had raced up that morning. 

Malfoy swiped his wand through the air, not breaking conversation with Eleanor, and led them both inside. The candles of the chandeliers sprung to life and those dotted along the base of portraits glowed, illuminating the pale, pointed faces of Malfoy’s ancestors, many of whom were eyeing Harry with distaste. Harry was at least thankful that they didn’t shout like Walburga Black did. It wouldn’t do to think of Grimmauld Place, though, so Harry hastened to keep his mind focused on the task at hand.

“My mother is currently abroad,” Malfoy said, removing his travelling cloak and levitating it onto a cloak rack. “If you don’t mind, I prefer to entertain in the drawing room.”

Eleanor said something in response that Harry didn’t catch. He stood at the threshold of the drawing room, peering inside anxiously. The room was familiar. Harry had seen it once before, in a dream. The memory, vivid and intrusive, filled his mind; Malfoy’s face contorted in pain, wand pointed at Rowle who was twitching and yelling in excruciation at his feet. Voldemort watching Malfoy, seeking out weakness, reluctance, wavering loyalty. Harry’s heart began to speed up, thumping rapidly in his chest.

“Potter?”

Harry snapped his eyes open and both the room before him and Malfoy’s frowning face swam into view. He blinked slowly, willing the memories—those terrifyingly astute visions—to leave. Malfoy was staring at him intently, his eyes darting between Harry’s face, which felt cold and clammy, and his hand clutched on the wall for support. His eyes were pale and shining, the gentle, dim light from the chandelier catching the small flecks of blue. 

“I’m fine,” Harry said instinctively.

Malfoy was still watching him so Harry recovered and snatched his hand away from the wall, bringing himself to full height. Despite this, Malfoy didn’t tear his eyes away, though he looked more introspective. 

“I realise now that bringing you here might have been… insensitive,” Mafloy said very quietly. 

Harry shook his head, feeling the weight of Malfoy’s words on his own shoulders. 

“How can you stand it?” he asked in a low voice that didn’t sound like his own. 

Malfoy’s head jerked and he turned away from Harry, casting his eye over the magnificent drawing room complete with velvet lounge chairs (on one of which Eleanor was perched) and sofas, mahogany bookshelves filled with musty paperbacks and magical instruments Harry didn’t recognise, and a grand piano gleaming in the centre of the room. It was then that Harry realised just how splendidly and extensively the drawing room had been renovated. Gone were the sinister objects lining the walls and the ugly portraits sneering down at whoever happened to be in the room. The dark wallpaper had been replaced by an elegant floral one and, despite the evening shade covering the light of the sun, the large, ornate windows ushered in rays of moonlight. 

“This isn’t my permanent place of residence,” Malfoy said. “I only come here when it’s necessary and, considering the very probable fact we are being watched, I didn’t want Concordia to find my other home.”

Harry nodded. “Where’s your other place?”

Malfoy glanced upwards. He looked for a moment as though he was about to respond before saying, “None of your business, Potter.” 

Harry snorted and made his way over to the lounge chair opposite Eleanor and nearest to the piano. For a few minutes, Harry allowed himself a minute to compose himself. The memories still lay dormant in the back of his mind but there was something different in the atmosphere that Harry couldn’t place his finger on which made him feel entirely less panicked. Perhaps it was Malfoy and Eleanor’s relaxed presence beside him, both discussing their potions theories with the kind of ferocious academic interest Harry had only ever seen in Hermione. Or maybe it was the entirely changed drawing room with its benevolent interior and crammed bookshelves and majestic piano. 

With a sigh, Harry pressed his wand to his temple, focused his attention on the thoughts of that day, of his conversation with the waitress and her reaction. Gently and with practiced ease, Harry removed the memory and inserted the trickling stream of blue light into the small phial he always carried around with him. 

“…really think that changes in Ashwinder eggs stocks coming in and out of Britain would be hard to notice,” Eleanor was saying. “But I’ll definitely take a look again and get back to you before you go back to Concordia in the morning.” 

“That would be splendid, thank you,” Malfoy said curtly. 

She smiled at him, as though she had a thousand thoughts on the tip of her tongue and not enough time in the world to tell them. “I had better get going,” she seemed to settle on. “Would it be alright if I used your Floo?”

“Certainly,” Malfoy said.

She gathered her array of papers by hand before clutching them to her chest.

“Nice to see you again, Harry,” she said brightly.

“Yeah—er—you too,” he said, tearing his gaze from the papers she had left on the table which were covered in Malfoy’s neat, angular cursive.

Malfoy led her out of the drawing room, presumably to where the main Floo fireplace was located. He returned not two minutes later and stood at the threshold for a moment. Standing there, the moonlight danced over the right side of his face, bringing his steely eyes, pale skin and the long line of his neck into relief. Malfoy shut his eyes briefly and Harry thought he saw his pale eyelashes flutter, his lips part slightly in a sigh. Feeling as though he was intruding on a private moment just as Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, Harry coughed. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

Malfoy startled, his eyes snapping open and darting around before landing on Harry within a couple of seconds.

“You’re still here,” Malfoy said blankly.

Harry frowned. “Er—yes,” he said. “I thought we were going to go to the Ministry so you can watch my memory from the coffee shop with the shitty cappuccinos and I can give Robards my report.”

“Not right this second,” Malfoy said as Harry made to get up. He strode back inside the drawing room, fixing Harry with a . “Everything is an urgency with you, Potter.”

“Everything in my job is, Malfoy,” Harry said tersely. “That’s the nature of it; open a case, investigate the crime, catch the criminal, file a report and repeat. There’s hardly time for waiting around for another crime to be committed.”

“Sounds terribly riveting,” Malfoy said sarcastically. “I can see now why so many people are vying to be recruited by the Aurors these days with the way you sell it.”

“I’m not trying to sell it,” Harry said, huffing a sigh. “I’m just telling it like it is.”

“Well, you always did have a way with words,” Malfoy said with an almost hedonistic smile. “I recall reading a transcript of one of your speeches and am quite sure there were more parentheses and ‘er’ equivalents than actual words therein.”

Harry glared at him. “Spend a lot of your time reading transcripts of my speeches, then, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s challenging gaze flickered but, if possible, his gaze turned almost contemplative. “I try to avoid it when I can, though I must admit that your profound ineptitude at public speaking is rather amusing. And there’s never an issue of the _Prophet_ without you mentioned at least once so it’s quite difficult to avoid, you see.”

“I’ve noticed,” Harry said. He dragged his hand through his hair, something that was still an unfamiliar sensation with the new cut. “I suppose you can ditch the _Prophet_ for the _Concordia_ —what’s it called?”

“Chronicle,” Malfoy supplied. “I managed to skim through a copy that was left on one of the tables in the coffee shop after you had embarked on your little Auror escapade, actually.”

“If you’re going to keep referring to it as that I won’t bother showing it to you,” Harry muttered.

“Yes you will,” Malfoy said dismissively. “Anyway, the _Chronicle_ is rather less than a newspaper than a quasi-censored endorsement of Concordia.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Like a pamphlet for Concordia, but written in a journalistic style,” Malfoy said. “It cites blood bond partners’ experiences with the bond—all of which were positive. There were a few advertisements for some of the shops in the compound, a property section with some houses for sale near the lake, some general articles about it currently being the best season to plant Ever-Swaying Primroses and the profiles of the official leaders of Concordia.”

Harry looked up sharply. “Why are you only telling me this now?” he demanded. “Who are they?”

“Rowle, obviously,” Malfoy said, “and Hubert Higglebound, who’s the head Officiator, apparently. He oversees the blood bond but doesn’t seem to have a potions background. The name was entirely new to me.”

“Could be a fake,” Harry said. “And I doubt that Rowle is more than just the face of Concordia. I’d imagine the person funding all of this has the real power. Anyone else listed?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said with a rather grim smile. “Malachy Lynch.”

Harry tilted his head, surprised. 

“Although,” Malfoy continued. “The information about him was entirely blurred. I had to charm the newspaper to reveal it.”

“Makes sense,” Harry said. “Rowle seemed pissed when you mentioned him. That blunder at the IWC obviously brought them a little too much publicity.”

“Quite.”

There was a lengthy pause during which Harry considered who Higglebound might be. The waitress, too, had mentioned his name, though the fact that neither he nor Malfoy recognised it was slightly worrying. 

“Do you want a drink?” Malfoy asked suddenly. 

Harry’s head snapped upwards to find Malfoy looking benignly at him. “What?”

“A drink. Tea? Firewhiskey?” Malfoy said briskly, summoning a tea cart from the opposite side of the room. The pot on the cart instantly began to produce great wafts of steam and a delicious, faintly lavender scent reached Harry’s nostrils. 

“Tea is fine,” Harry said, though he was desperately craving a shot of Firewhiskey. It was the thought of arriving at the Ministry after a couple of drinks, however, that kept him from voicing that thought. 

“Suit yourself.” Malfoy poured a splash of Firewhiskey into his own cup of tea before handing Harry the second one. 

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, accepting it. He joined Malfoy awkwardly at the tea cart and added milk and sugar. Malfoy did the same, stirring the contents three times before sipping. He closed his eyes and sighed. 

Harry suddenly found that he didn’t want to stand so closely to Malfoy in such a large room and wandered over to the gleaming piano. He took a long sip before placing it on top of the surface.

“Do you play?” Harry asked, fiddling with the keys. 

“Occasionally.”

Malfoy’s voice was closer than Harry expected. 

“I’d bet Teddy loves it.”

Malfoy let out a breath of laughter. “He does. Although, none of the portraits that used to be here,” he said, waving his hand along the bare, opposite wall, “enjoyed Teddy’s playing quite as much as he did. I had to remove them all when my great-great-uncle Sarabius began wailing in agony when Teddy announced an encore to his rendition of ‘Frosty the Cursed Snowman’ last Christmas.”

Harry smiled to himself. “I’m not surprised.”

Malfoy hummed. “Though he evidently lacks any musical ability, I’ve noticed that his metamorphosising skills are improving.”

Harry glanced up to find Malfoy looking at where his fingers were fiddling with the keys. Teddy was a safe topic, evidently, but it made him feel strange to consider Malfoy—poised, uptight Malfoy—spending time with Teddy; chasing him around the garden and listening to his rambling and entertaining his requests. Or noticing how his metamorphosising powers had been changing as of late.

“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling slightly, “but they go a bit wonky if he eats too much sugar. I brought him home last night after he’d eaten a vat of chocolate sauce. His hair kept changing colour so often I had to cover him in the invisibility cloak because the Muggles we passed along the way started noticing.”

“Yes, it’s a shame that Aunt Andromeda chose to live in such a Muggle-inhabited area.”

Harry snatched his fingers away from the piano and glared at him, daring him to say anything further about Muggles, but Malfoy merely sighed.

“When I was his age I was able to play Quidditch to my heart’s content but it’s far too conspicuous in Andromeda’s garden.”

Harry blinked. The notes of suspicion in his thoughts were drowned by a strange feeling of guilt. “Right. Does he come here often?”

For some reason, the thought of Teddy running through the polished corridors and poking the peacocks strutting about the garden made his stomach clench. No matter how much life and enthusiasm Teddy brought, this was the place Hermione had been tortured; where Luna and Dean and Mr Ollivander had been held captive; where the knife that killed Dobby had been thrown. Harry couldn’t forget the maliciousness and the terror seeping through the Manor, making the thoughts of Teddy’s laughter ringing through the halls seem eerie and disjointed. Harry let out a slow, steadying breath. 

Malfoy shook his head. “I tend to bring him to my other… place of residence.” He pulled back the sleeve of his robe. “We should leave for the Ministry.”

Harry nodded. He could tell a lost lead when he saw one and, judging from Malfoy’s almost impetuous change of topic, he wouldn’t be wheedling anything else about where Malfoy lived from him.

“Do you have the Polyjuice?”

While Malfoy left the room to retrieve the vials that Robards had supplied them with—they wouldn’t be able to show their faces in the Ministry, neither as Harold Auditore nor as Draco Malfoy—Harry secured the vial of his memory from the coffee shop in his robe pocket and finished his tea. 

“It smells apaling,” Malfoy said, re-emerging from the hallway. He flung one of the vials at Harry, who shot an arm out to snatch it three feet above the ground. He grinned victoriously at Malfoy, who pressed his lips together, which only made Harry grin more broadly.

Together, they drank the vials—both of which were sludge-coloured, though Harry’s smelled of matches while Malfoy’s let off a distinct smell of burned fish. Wincing as the thick liquid trickled down his throat, Harry felt the familiar sensation and watched his skin bubble beneath the surface, pulsating and thickening. The Polyjuice disguises they had been given didn’t alter their bodies in any dramatic manner to ensure that robe or show adjustments wouldn’t be necessary. Other than that, however, Malfoy looked entirely different; flat nose, cropped, greying hair and lines around his eyes and forehead. Judging from Malfoy’s expression—distinctively _Malfoy,_ even behind the new features—Harry’s appearance was not to his taste. 

“You could try to look less like my appearance has morbidly insulted you,” Harry said, vanishing the vials and following Malfoy out of the dining room and along the dimly lit hallway. It was far later than he had expected, candelabras and chandeliers providing the only weak, flickering light. 

“It does and I rather don’t feel like pretending otherwise,” Malfoy said, stepping to Harry’s right and opening one of the mahogany doors. It revealed a surprisingly small room, windowless, with a single, powder blue armchair. The ceiling was at least fourteen feet tall, entirely lined with crammed bookshelves, apart from the handsome fireplace directly opposite the door. 

“The library, I suppose,” Harry said, dragging a hand over the bindings of the books nearest to him in a manner that Madam Pince would have certainly disapproved of. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy said, climbing into the fireplace and fixing Harry with a pointed stare. “This is the Floo Room, used mainly for guests. First impression of the Manor for some, you know.”

“Of course,” Harry said sarcastically. “Don’t know _how_ I didn’t guess about five thousand ancient books didn’t constitute a library at all. They’re just for show.”

Malfoy ignored him. Once Harry drew his eyes away from the books and climbed inside beside Malfoy, he promptly seized a handful of glimmering Floo powder from a small, ornate pot.

“Glasses, Potter,” Malfoy said before throwing the Floo powder downwards and calling ‘The Ministry of Magic’.”

Harry quickly removed his glasses and was instantly engulfed by the familiar, warming sensation that left slightly like stepping through a waft of steam. 

They arrived with a jolt at one of the Ministry fireplaces in the Atrium, which was disconcertingly bare.

“What time is it?” Harry muttered, striding beside Malfoy and trying not to sync their footsteps, which echoed sharply on the bare, polished tiles. 

“Sometime after nine, I believe.”

“No wonder,” Harry said. 

Hermione would be here, predictably, and the more dedicated and senior Ministry workers but, as far as Harry could tell, the Ministry was almost entirely deserted. They didn’t have to wait for an elevator, which all stood open expectantly. There was a tense set to Malfoy’s shoulders through his robes as Harry followed him into the elevator and clicked the small ‘Level 2’. His eyes, too, looked unseeing as he stared at the reflective grey of the elevator door. Harry wondered vaguely whether he was nervous about seeing Robards again, or whether he expected something to go wrong. 

“Level 2: Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

The doors sprang open and they followed the narrow corridors, past doors from which murmuring and muffled clapping noises were emerging, much to Harry’s relief. They turned a corner, walked through a pair of heavy doors, and emerged in the Auror Headquarters. Seven pairs of eyes darted up to meet theirs. Four people were hunched over another’s desk, their whispering cut short at the sight of Harry and Malfoy. Another three, junior Aurors by their bright eyes and tottering piles of paperwork were anything to go by, watched as Harry and Malfoy walked inside. 

“We’re here to see Robards,” Harry said in a gruff voice. “He’s expecting us.”

“Not stopping you,” one of the witches, who Harry recognised as Dottie Goldstein, said. “Just it’s a little late to be popping in for a meeting, isn’t it?”

“Busy schedule, you know how it is,” Harry said. He spotted his Auror partner, McNeil, who was seated at his desk, spinning his wand between his fingers as he always did whenever he was agitated. Though Harry wanted to give him a reassuring smile—and very faintly thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in McNeil’s eyes at the sight of him—he knew it would be far too risky to reveal his Polyjuice identity. At the sight of the bags beneath McNeil’s eyes, he made a mental note to take him out for a beer at the Leaky during the next break he had from the case. 

“Well in you go, then, before Robards heads home,” the witch said testily. 

Taking heed, Harry marched ahead of Draco towards Robards’ office. He knocked once, heard a vague sound of acknowledgement that sounded as though Robards had unwillingly be roused from a deep sleep and pushed the door open. 

A wand pointed directly at Harry’s chest. Robards was on his feet, his mouth open and a glint in his eye. 

“Robards, it’s us!” Harry said urgently, stepping in front of Malfoy when he sensed him sidle into the office. The door slammed behind him. “It’s me—Harry!”

Instantly, Robards’ face drained of the fierce gravity and he dropped his wand hand limply to his side. 

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely, dragging a hand down his face. “I— it’s been a long day. And I expected you here hours ago,” he added, glaring at Harry.

“We were preoccupied,” Harry said quickly. “With the case.”

Robards sat heavily in his chair. “I should hope so. Don’t let it happen again.”

Harry sensed an agitated note in Robards’ tone that he wasn’t familiar with.

“It won’t,” he said earnestly.

Apparently still slightly perturbed by what he had undoubtedly thought was some kind of ambush by two unfamiliar, elderly wizards, Robards watched Harry and Malfoy carefully. Harry glanced over to Malfoy, who’s eyes were alert and darting between them, before he gestured for Malfoy to take the seat beside him. 

Harry filled Robards in on the events of the morning, aided by Malfoy’s scathing commentary and analysis on his initial thoughts about the composition of the potion. The whole time, Robards looked attentive but weary, showing no particular signs of surprise—years of Auror training left him ready to anticipate anything—and all the while rubbing his thumb over the base of his wand in contemplation. When he finished Robards gave him a firm nod.

“Very good,” Robards said quietly, tapping his wand on the piece of parchment that had been noting everything Harry said. The parchment sealed itself, scurried along the desk and soared over to the open filing cabinet, where it tucked itself inside the file marked ‘Felix—Classified’. 

“Robards, I was hoping to show Malfoy—and you too, I suppose—my memory of the coffee shop incident,” Harry said, feeling rather more nervous than usual.

Robards nodded absently, clearly still consumed by thoughts. “By all means,” he said gesturing to the cabinet where Harry knew his personal Pensieve was kept. 

With careful hands, Harry removed the Pensieve and carried it over to where Malfoy sat perched on the edge of his seat, back rigid even in his disguised form. He removed the vial from his chest pocket and poured it inside. He watched as the shimmering matter fell gracefully in tangles, weaving through the outer rim of the Pensieve before flashes of Harry’s memory appeared on the surface.

Malfoy nodded curtly at him and leaned over the Pensieve. Harry thought he heard a small intake of breath before Malfoy lowered his head and submerged it. 

Sighing, and suddenly feeling the weight of the day’s events settle on his shoulders, Harry leaned back in his chair and surveyed Robards.

“So,” Harry said, “what do you think? How do we need to go about this operation.”

Robards caught his eye at this, a curious pique to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve never been one to directly ask for advice before, Potter,” he said with a tinkle of amusement in his tone. “Maverick as you are.”

“I’ve never had to deal with a case like this before,” Harry said, glancing over to where Malfoy was still looking inside the Pensieve. “It’s hard to know where to begin, let alone what approach we should take.”

“Well, you’ve found quite a lot more than I expected for the first day,” Robards said fairly. He shot Malfoy a look of deep concentration. “How’s he been?”

Harry almost smiled. “An irritating nuisance one minute and almost helpful the next,” he muttered. “It’s maddening.”

Robards nodded gravely. “Potioneers are very skilled in mechanics and precision. They’re also very curious, which can be both a blessing in their academic work, and a curse for anyone who crosses them. Leaves them capricious whenever they have a thought or idea.”

Harry regarded him for a moment. “You’re speaking from experience, I suppose.”

Robards smiled weakly. “My late wife was a potioneer.”

Harry felt the muscles around his mouth strain. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He knew, of course, that the photograph of the woman on Robards’ desk was of her—laughing, buried in layers of scarves and coats, wispy hair blowing wildly and a mountain range behind her—but she was rarely mentioned.

“Don’t be,” Robards said, shaking his head. “All I’m saying is to keep an eye on Malfoy. I wouldn’t dream of doubting his potion-making skills but we wouldn’t want him getting distracted by the potion itself and forgetting the nature of the case.”

Though it wasn’t said, Harry knew precisely what Robards was implying. During the few minutes that Malfoy listed off the potioneers that he recognised or knew personally at the compound, Harry had watched Robard’s face clear of any discernible expression, a clear sign that he was worried. Though it would ideally make Malfoy’s access to the potion-making facilities easier, it would also mean that Harry and Malfoy would likely be separated and Malfoy would be working directly on a potions project by which he was plainly fascinated. 

“Of course,” Harry said easily. “Malfoy said that it would probably take time for the more senior members of Concordia to trust us, though.”

Before Robards could respond, there was a stifled gasping noise and Malfoy reemerged. He raised his head and looked directly at Harry, looking thoroughly unimpressed. 

“I cannot believe you, Potter,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth,disregarding Robards entirely. “You let her believe that we’re bond partners? You do realise that we’ll have to maintain that lie. She may very well tell other people. Or ask around about us. And quite aside from those overpriced and frankly disgusting cappuccinos, we’ll never be able to return that coffee shop again.”

Harry found Malfoy’s tone disproportionately irritating. What he wouldn’t give for Malfoy to look at the situation from his point of view for once instead of jumping down his throat and opposing every decision Harry made.

“Well, what else was I meant to do?” Harry asked hotly. “It was a perfect moment to ask her something about the bond. Who knows when I’ll get another chance like that? And besides, I get the impression that losing her magical abilities is not something she enjoys talking about. I doubt she’ll start shouting it from the rooftops.”

“I’m not talking about the side-effects of the blood bond,” Malfoy retorted impatiently, turning in his chair to face Harry. “I’m talking about the fact that we can’t be seen to act like we’re new or not knowledgeable about the blood bind if she’s in the vicinity.”

“You don’t think I know that? It was a calculated risk, Malfoy. Otherwise we could be ages trying to find the right chance to ask questions about the bond. I thought you were the one who wanted this over with as soon as possible, anyway.”

“I do. But efficiently doesn’t require rousing unnecessary suspicion.”

“It’s one person,” Harry said impatiently. “I know what she looks like and I’ll be able to solve it if there’s ever a problem. Which there won’t be.”

Malfoy didn’t look placated but as he opened his mouth again, Robards cleared his throat pointedly. When Harry wheeled around—he hadn’t realised that he had rotated his entire body to face Malfoy in the chair beside his own—Robards was peering between them.

“I agree with both of you,” he said shortly. “It was a good opportunity, yes,” he said to Harry, “but you should cast a Memory Modification Charm on her at the first opportunity. I agree that it’s unlikely she told anyone besides her own bond partner that you witnessed them but, from what I gather, this shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Fine,” Harry bit out, feeling mildly annoyed by the way Malfoy crossed his legs and leaned backwards smugly.

“I’ll expect another report at the earliest convenience,” Robards said, glancing at the clock above the cabinet, which read 10:07. “But I appreciate you coming tonight. And I’ll be sure to expect these appearances”—he waved his hand in their general vicinity—“the next time.”

Harry could recognise their cue to leave. He pulled out his wand, tapped the side of the basin of the Pensieve and guided his memory back inside his head, leaving him with a cold sensation prickling the back of his neck. 

“Tomorrow, then,” Harry said.

“If you can. Between Harold Auditore and”—he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of Harry’s Polyjuiced appearance—“this bloke, you need to be seen somewhere public as yourselves too. Otherwise people will wonder about your whereabouts.”

Harry nodded. He heard Malfoy bid Robards a curt farewell before they swept out of the office together. Every cubicle was empty by this stage, with the sole exception of McNeil’s. He swivelled around in his chair at the sound of them both and met Harry’s gaze with a complacent smile, ankle resting on the opposite knee.

“Well, well, well,” McNeil said, giving Harry a long, unabashed once-over. “I’ve seen you look worse, Potter.”

“Piss off, McNeil,” Harry said, striding over to him. He sensed Malfoy on his heels. “What gave me away?”

“I’d recognise that confident, heroic gait anywhere,” McNeil said smoothly. 

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious!” McNeil protested. He looked pleadingly at Malfoy, as though searching for support. “You’re always walking around as though you’ve emerged from a fiery building or something, all steadfast and determined.”

Malfoy made a noise of amused scepticism. 

McNeil walked over to Harry and began tugging at his rather weak excuse for a beard before Harry batted him away. McNeil stayed put beside Harry before he crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at Malfoy. “So you’re my replacement, then?”

Harry thought he saw Malfoy stand a little taller.

“Unfortunately so,” Malfoy said cooly.

McNeil’s eyebrows shot up and he rounded on Harry. “What’ve you done to insult him already?”

“I haven’t done a thing,” Harry said tersely. 

McNeil looked unconvinced but sighed loudly before Harry could defend himself beyond glaring at Malfoy. “Well, just remember that you, Potter, have got it twice as good as me,” he said, gesturing at the pile of paperwork covering almost every available surface near him. 

Harry let out a low whistle. “New partner not putting in the work?” 

McNeil shook his head, swearing under his breath. “She says I’m a liability in the field and has taken to doing all the track and report missions herself. And that means I’m stuck with a bloody mountain in my intray.”

“Tough luck,” Harry said. “Can’t say I miss covering for you during those escapades of yours.”

“And which escapades might you be referring to, Potter?” McNeil asked with a glint in his eye and a boyish smile on his face.

“Yes, Potter, do tell.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Malfoy who, even beneath the disguise, looked unimpressed and distinctly ruffled. 

“Nothing in particular,” Harry shrugged, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under Malfoy’s scrutiny. He shook away the thought when McNeil let out a raucous laugh in his ear.

“Anyway, you’re on for drinks next weekend?” McNeil asked. He nodded at Malfoy. “You’re welcome too, Mystery Potioneer. Under disguise, of course.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Harry said easily. He didn’t glance behind him to see if Malfoy had made any indicative response. For some reason, the thought of Malfoy mingling with his work colleagues left him with an uneasy, churning sensation in his stomach. He decided not to dwell on the thought; Malfoy probably wouldn’t want to go in the first place. 

“Well, good,” McNeil said. He pulled Harry into a one-handed hug and rubbed his back in the way he only ever did after Harry had endured a particularly tough incident but couldn’t voice how he felt. It was a mark of just how well McNeil could read him that, even through the Polyjuice, he knew that Harry was in need of a similar reassurance. “I’d better hand this to Robards anyway,” he said, levitating a stack of parchment and sending it over to Robards’ office, following in its wake. “See you soon, then!”

“Yeah, see you,” Harry said absently. He fixed his gaze on Malfoy again, only to find him turned to face McNeil’s retreating figure, a definite stiffness to the line of his shoulders.

They made their way back to the elevators and down to the Atrium in silence, save for the ringing sounds of their footsteps and Malfoy’s occasional sigh. It wasn’t until they reached the Floo fireplaces that Malfoy halted.

“That Auror—McNeil,” he began quietly. 

“He’s been my Auror partner for the last couple of years,” Harry said. “He doesn’t know about the mission.”

Malfoy made a faint noise. “Well that much was rather obvious. Mystery Potioneer,” he said under his breath in a mocking tone.

Harry frowned. “Look, you don’t have to come out next week if it’s not your—”

“I don’t intend to,” Malfoy cut in, his voice far louder than was warranted in the deserted Atrium. 

Harry stepped closer to the grate, feeling the weight of the day plummet on his shoulders. He wasn’t in the right state of mind to reason with Malfoy or try to decipher the origin of his bad mood, if there was one. 

“Fine,” Harry said shortly. “He was only being nice by asking you.”

“I’m sure,” Malfoy said, sounding slightly vicious. He flung his cloak around him so that it billowed around his ankles. He climbed gracefully inside the grate and turned around to face Harry. “Gryffindors are renowned for their generosity and forgiveness, after all.”

Harry frowned. “What are you even—McNeil was in Ravenclaw!”

“Irrelevant,” Malfoy said. He slipped his wand out of his pocket and looked pointedly at Harry. “You had better be on time tomorrow, Potter, or I have a good mind to submit my resignation and let you canter back to McNeil as you’re clearly dying to do.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest but it was then that Malfoy disappeared behind a roaring, emerald flame and Harry was left quite alone and extremely confused. He huffed, ignoring the misplaced indignation flaring in his chest and marched inside the grate after Malfoy.


	8. Fallacy

The following morning brought a heavy stillness and a bleak, cloudy sky. Harry awoke with a jolt and immediately registered a delicate rapping somewhere to his right. Rubbing his eyes blearily, he ripped back the blankets and hoisted himself to his feet. After a moment of groping his bedside locker, Harry located his glasses and shoved them on as the rapping grew impatient. There, perched on the windowsill, was a tawny owl with a hastily-folded scroll of parchment in his beak. He blinked once at Harry before continuing his relentless rapping.

“Alright, alright,” Harry said gruffly, stumbling over to the window. He flung it open and the owl leaped inside, soared once around the room and landed on Harry’s shoulder, dropping the scroll into his open hand. He opened it at once and began to read.

_Dearest Harold, my quill-friend,_

Malfoy’s sarcasm somehow managed to translate to his writing, too. The fact that Malfoy had addressed him as Harold Auditore rather than ‘Potter’, without an insult or expletive attached, was quite telling, however. He assumed that Malfoy thought his post was being watched. 

_There has been a change of plan. I know that you insisted that spending the night at the Manor last night simply would not be possible, given your deepest worry about your parents and your insistence that you should spend the night searching for them. I do hope that they are safe and well. However, I must_ _insist_ _that you return to the Manor at your earliest convenience. I have been granted an extremely rare opportunity to observe a blood bond and advise a number of fellow potioneers in Concordia. I therefore must leave with haste. This opportunity was offered with a number of stipulations, however, one of which was the choice between my taking of an Unbreakable Bond to preserve Concordia’s most revered methods_ or _disclosing my own private research and committing myself entirely to the endeavour of advancing Concordia’s knowledge. Naturally, I chose the latter. The suggestion that I would reduce myself to copying another potioneer’s work is frankly insulting. Nevertheless, I would very much like you to accompany me_ _immediately_ _as it is highly unlikely another opportunity of this kind will arise in the near future._

_Bring with you a trunk containing any robes and possessions you require. I cannot predict how long we will be required to stay there._

_Bring with you the item you hold most dearly too._

_D.M._

Harry pulled his lower lip between his teeth. What could Malfoy possibly mean by any of that? Evidently, Malfoy had received a message late last night offering him a position to work with the other potioneers on a number of conditions. He could practically feel the fury and indignation Malfoy felt at the thought of relinquishing his hold on his own precious potions research. Harry felt a strange surge of relief and mingled surprise at this; clearly, Malfoy was devoted to the case or he would not have even considered such a prospect. 

There was an uneasy, clawing feeling in his stomach at the thought of these demands, though. The head potioneers at Concordia clearly thought that they were in a position to make demands. Malfoy would be a useful tool to them but, without participating in the bond himself, Harry worried to what extent the other potioneers would be willing to expose him to Concordia’s most jealously guarded secrets. 

He sighed heavily. 

_Bring with you the item you hold most dearly._ Harry didn’t have to think about this, calling “ _Accio invisibility cloak_!” and stowing it inside his bag haphazardly.

It took another ten frantic minutes to get ready. Fastening the thickest travelling cloak that Aphra had given him and checking his unfamiliar reflection in the mirror, Harry climbed into the fireplace. One hand grasping his wand and the handle of his trunk, the other holding a handful of Floo powder, he shouted “Malfoy Manor” and was instantly surrounded by glaring green flames. 

Harry stumbled onto the carpet of the Floo Room to find Malfoy standing behind the single, powder blue armchair, his white knuckles pressing into the velvet fabric. 

“Finally,” Malfoy said loudly. 

Heaving his trunk out of the fireplace, Harry registered the way Malfoy’s hair was slightly limp, falling over his forehead as though he’d messed it up in irritation. There was something in the look Malfoy gave him, something unspoken and yet unequivocal: it was a warning. A warning that they were not able to speak freely, that Harry was to stick to the story in Malfoy’s letter and that, like it or not, he was to trust Malfoy’s judgement. 

“Still no luck finding my parents,” Harry said, looking pointedly at Malfoy. Harry thought he saw Malfoy’s shoulders relax slightly. “I just hope Concordia doesn’t keep you too long with the research. I want to find some time to look for them again this evening.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Malfoy said smoothly. He didn’t meet Harry’s eye but wordlessly guided him out of the Floo Room and into the hallway, where the portrait of a sullen witch with a pointed chin eyed his earring with distaste. 

“You haven’t given Concordia all of your research, have you?” Harry asked, following Malfoy with his trunk in hand. He wasn’t sure why he was asking, wasn’t sure why he cared so much about Malfoy’s work, but the words spilled out of his mouth before he could help himself.

“I have all of my research pertaining to the subject of blood bonds in my trunk,” Malfoy said, indicating the trunk standing prepared in front of the enormous front door. “And yes, is the answer. As you would know if you read my letter—”

“I did read it!”

“—this opportunity is a rare one and I really can’t afford to let it slip away out of vanity or… a disinclination to share my work with others.”

“I know that,” Harry said, trying to force Malfoy to meet his eye as they ventured out into the biting wind and along the gravelly driveway. “I’m just saying, it’s a lot to ask of you.”

“Of course you’d say that.”

Harry frowned. “What are you trying to say, M—Draco?”

“I’m not trying to say anything of substance,” he said, lifting his chin but wincing as a particularly strong gust of wind swept past them. “Just pointing out that you wouldn’t appreciate the magnitude of this academic development.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Harry said quickly. “I’m talking about you giving up everything you’ve been working on for years just to—what? Get a tour of the brewing facilities at Concordia?” He was trying to indicate that he might have better luck investigating the place later that night, under the invisibility cloak, without Malfoy having to give up all of his potions work to achieve the same results, but he wasn’t sure Malfoy understood that. 

“It’s called quid pro quo, Harry,” he said, saying the name through gritted teeth, as though it caused him physical agony. “It’s a trade, not a personal investment.”

Harry was about to protest but they had reached the wrought-iron gates. With a wave of Malfoy’s wand, the gates disappeared in a puff of smoke, allowing both him and Harry to pass through unscathed. Before Harry could open his mouth again, Malfoy had gripped his forearm and Disapparated them both. 

Within seconds they had landed in the boundless countryside and Malfoy instantly let go of Harry’s arm. Despite the churning in his stomach and dizzy head from the sudden Apparition, it was the burning spot on his forearm that Harry only fully registered. 

“It’s safe,” Malfoy said instantly. He pushed a strand of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes back in place. “When I came back from the Ministry, there was a letter waiting for me from Rowle herself. She offered to have the head potioneer show me around the facilities and witness a blood bond on the condition that I give up my work.” When Harry began to protest again, Malfoy held up his hand. “I know what I signed up for, alright? I don’t need you of all people telling me off for making a rash decision.”

“I wasn’t going to do that,” Harry insisted, sliding his hand up and down his forearm. “I agree that it’s a good opportunity but I think you’re overestimating them. I have bargaining power. You could tell them that you need full access, or that they can only have access to some of your work.”

Malfoy watched him, his pale eyes shimmering in the feeble sunshine occasionally seeping through the ominous clouds. For a moment, Harry felt quite frozen to the spot, unable to remove himself from Malfoy’s gaze. 

After what felt like far too long, Malfoy’s voice broke the silence. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to achieve here, Potter,” he said quietly. “I said I was willing to give up my work so what’s the problem. There’s no point in complicating matters or annoying Rowle unnecessarily.”

“I just— there’s always another way to get what you want than just by doing what people tell you to do.”

Malfoy blinked and the corners of his lips—chapped in the harsh wind—twitched. “How very Slytherin an approach, Potter.”

Harry felt strangely abashed by this but Malfoy didn’t afford him the privilege of retorting. 

“I seriously considered rejecting the offer, you know. But I didn’t want to put this operation at risk,” Malfoy said, dropping his gaze to a clump of heather at his feet. “It’s clear from what I’ve been told—and not told—that there’s too much at stake.”

Harry stepped closer to Malfoy, watching him intently. “Every single case I work on has something at stake. If I acted for the greater good every single time there’d be no risks. None. And justice couldn’t be done.”

“And that’s what keeps you interested, I suppose?” Malfoy said, meeting Harry’s eye, looking slightly less guarded. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He sighed. “Making demands will draw too much attention, especially when Concordia are probably trying to find information on you as we speak and aren’t getting anywhere. It’ll make me look suspicious by default, seeing as I brought you with me.”

“Robards has some information about Harold Auditore out there for them to get their hands on, and he has a few contacts in Sri Lanka and India that owe him. They’ll confirm my story if Concordia does any digging.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything else. Harry noticed that the fierce wind brought a very faint pink hue to his cheeks. For some reason, he couldn’t tear his eyes away; it reminded him too much of seeing Malfoy on his broom during a Quidditch match, his usually sleek hair blowing, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks bitten by the wind. 

“I don’t know what they have planned,” Malfoy said quietly. “And I don’t know whether what they have involves you or not.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said easily. He gestured in the direction of the distant Concordia compound and they began their walk, trunks levitating behind them. “Either I’ll insist on going with you to make it seem like we intend to get the bond and want to see what it looks like, or I’ll follow behind you under the invisibility cloak.”

Malfoy didn’t look sceptical, but there was a strange pinch to his expression that strangely reminded Harry of concern. For what, he had no idea, but felt it necessary to justify his plan nevertheless. 

“Malfoy, part of my job involves protection anyway. It’ll be fine. You can get all the evidence you need about the potion and I can suss out who’s behind the compound and why.” 

They marched in tandem through a couple of wildflower fields, hearing only the wind whistling and the occasional bumping of their trunks behind them. By the time they reached the compound, Harry was slightly out of breath. 

“ _Ecflagitatio_ ,” Malfoy said, flicking his wand. The imprints of themselves had barely passed through the gates before they swung open with an eerie creek. A strangely warm gust of wind swept past them. Behind the gates, looking slightly flustered, as though he had just Apparated, stood a squat man wearing midnight blue robes, beaming between Malfoy and Harry, as though they were an early Christmas present he hadn’t dared to wish for. Once Harry and Malfoy had stepped through the threshold, he bounded over to them and shook their hands voraciously. 

“Hubert Higglebound,” he said. The man spoke in a breathless voice, and Harry couldn’t help but notice that his hands were slightly clammy. “I’m the head Officiator of the blood bonds here at Concordia. It’s an absolute pleasure, Mr Malfoy.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Malfoy said smoothly. 

“And you must be Mr Auditore,” Higglebound said, smiling indulgently at Harry, who tried to return the favour. 

“Yes,” Harry said, observing Higglebound and narrowing his eyes at his apparently nerve-induced fidgeting. 

“Let me assist you with those,” Higglebound said and, before Harry could object, both his and Malfoy’s trunks vanished with a slight _pop_! “I’ve just sent them to your residence. It was set up for you upon our agreement, Mr Malfoy.”

“Terrific,” Malfoy said mildly. Harry noticed a watchful glint to Malfoy’s eye and felt very relieved that he had transfigured any identifying contents of his trunk in case Higglebound had their trunks checked. 

“You’ll be taking us directly to the potions facility,” Harry asked, hoping that his inquisitiveness wasn’t transparent. 

“Indeed!” cried Higglebound, rocking on the balls on his feet. “The arrangements are, admittedly, quite impressive even to the untrained potioneer’s eye.” 

Higglebound indicated further along the path and they strode together along it, eyes trained ahead.

“So what was it about Concordia that interested you?” Harry asked, feeling it safe to probe Higglebound; he seemed jovial but harmless, although Harry was still cautious about anyone involved in the organisation.

“Oh, the sheer prospect of such magical expertise!” Higglebound exclaimed. “Great minds, great wands, great ambition. Of course, the concept was very early days when I began a few years ago, but it was the vision that really sparked my attention.”

“And has that vision been realised, do you think?” Harry continued.

Higglebound’s bright smile faltered ever so slightly but Harry caught it.

“An academic's vision is never stationary,” he said. “Mine, as well as Ms Rowle and Mr Lynch. We, that is to say Concordia’s founders, understood that our vision would have to change. Become compromised, even.”

“How so?”

Higglebound nodded, as though he was processing Harry’s question. “Truth be told,” he said with a slightly sheepish smile, “we hadn’t banked on such inconsistency in the potion. As the brewing technique developed and we understood more about it, we thought that the effects would become clearer. But when we expanded our scope and gave the potion to more people, inconsistencies kept cropping up.”

“Like the temporary ceasing of magical activity?” Malfoy interjected.

Higglebound nodded gravely. 

They had just arrived at the entrance to Bluebow Boulevard, which was teeming with people. It was as vivid and vibrant as the previous day, though not quite as noisy. 

“I suppose you haven’t yet succeeded in discovering the root of this flaw yet?” Malfoy continued.

“I’m afraid not,” Higglebound said. “I’m sure that’s precisely why my colleagues are delighted that you’ve decided to offer your services. As far as I’m aware they had run a bet on when you’d decide to contribute your services to Concordia—you certainly held out longer than anyone expected!” he said with a tinkling laugh.

Harry’s blood boiled and he felt a great surge of dislike course through him quite unexpectedly. 

“It wasn’t my intention to keep you waiting, I assure you,” Malfoy said smoothly.

“So are your colleagues all potioneers, Mr Higglebound?” Harry said as they veered right onto a side street. It was narrow, with uneven cobblestones and a long row of bicycles they had to sidle past. 

“That’s right. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a Calming Draught and Babbling Beverage if you showed me, though. I act as the head Officiator.”

“And what does that entail, exactly?” Malfoy said, sounding slightly bored, as though Higglebound wasn’t worth his time. 

“Spellwork,” Higglebound said simply. They had come to a halt outside a white-washed building with a glimmering quality, as though shielded from passers-by. “The potion won’t work on its own accord unless the magical activity tracker is charmed into the shoulder of the wand-dominant arm. That way the magical levels can be tracked and blood bond partners can exchange powers when necessary.”

Harry exchanged a look with Malfoy over Higglebound’s head. The readiness with which Higglebound was disclosing information was worrying. Higglebound pulled his wand from inside his robes and made a long sweeping movement across the exterior of the building. The glimmering quality subsided and the green door swung open promptly. 

They were met with a tiny entrance area and a grimy staircase with a layer of disturbed dust on each step. With a great sigh Higglebound smiled apologetically at them both over his shoulder before proceeding up the stairs in great, bounding footsteps. 

Harry caught Malfoy’s sleeve and slipped his wand out of his pocket, giving Malfoy a significant look so that he would do the same. Voices and a smattering of laughter could be heard upstairs, but there was something strange about the venue that struck Harry as unsuited for potioneers; it was grimy and dark, with dark spots on the wood-panelled walls and an uncomfortable, damp warmth seemed to permeate the place. 

The voices grew louder when, at last, they rounded a corner at the top of the staircase and were presented with a single open door. It revealed an enormous room, each wall entirely covered by shelves brimming with books and bottled ingredients. On top of every work-bench sat at least four cauldrons. Some were bubbling or frothing, others brewing soundlessly. A copper cauldron with a vermillion potion inside was hissing and spitting. Another was issuing smoke in a rhythmic pattern and the small pewter cauldron to Harry’s immediate right was making faint sneezing noises. Roles of parchment were suspended in mid-air, unfurling whenever one of the potioneers reached upwards to make an addition to the extensive research written upon them. Harry counted twelve researchers, all working silently but for the two chattering excitedly in the corner who had apparently been making most of the noise. It was only upon closer inspection that Harry realised that these two were not potioneers—they were holding hands very tightly and not wearing the matching robes that the potioneers were.

Higglebound cleared his throat loudly but, in the haze of fumes from some of the potion and with the prodigious noise some of the potions were making, he could not be heard.

“There’s something off about him,” Harry said very quietly and between clenched teeth. He felt Malfoy shift slightly closer beside him to hear more clearly. “I can’t put my finger on it; might be a weak dose of Veritaserum, or he might have been Imperiused but there’s no way he’d tell us all of that if he was acting of his own free will.”

“Agreed,” Malfoy whispered, dropping his chin and pretending to undo and redo the buttons of his cloak so that nobody would see his lips moving. “Although we’ve no normal standard Higglebound to compare him to; we’ve no idea what he’s usually like.”

Higglebound had stepped forward into the room, Harry and Malfoy remaining at the threshold of the door. He cleared his throat again and tapped his wand to his throat, magnifying the sound. Every potioneer instantly whipped out their wands, replicated a complex figure-eight motion at their work stations and the noise ceased as quickly as if a silencing charm had been placed on the room. The ten potioneers turned military-like to face Higglebound, all perfectly in rhythm and wearing a vacant, slightly grim expression. 

“Morning all,” Higglebound said brightly. He turned to face the couple in the corner, tipping them a wink, “Mr and Mrs Madden.”

They smiled nervously, gripping each other’s hands more tightly.

Higglebound’s eyes surveyed the room, as though trained to catch anything out of place though, of course, he had no potions experience as far as Harry was aware of.

“Has Rowle been in this morning yet, Unwin?” he asked one of the potioneers, whose eyes were trained directly ahead of her.

“She has, Sir. Left not fifteen minutes ago,” the potioneer—Unwin—said quickly. She had a thick New Jersey accent. 

“Good, good,” Higglebound said. “And you’re about to attend to the Maddens, I presume.”

Unwin’s opened her mouth to reply but then faltered, as though second-guessing whether Higglebound had asked her a direct question.

Higglebound’s previously jovial demeanour changed in a disconcerting instant. He strode over to her, and held his face inches above her own. His smile hadn’t fallen but there was a hardness in his eyes that, even from a distance, Harry caught.

“Well?” he demanded. “They were waiting when I arrived. You can’t expect them,” he gestured to the Maddens who both winced, “to cater to your work hours. Little good it’s done if no real progress has been made either.”

“Yes, Sir. I was just about to give them the final potion, Sir.”

Higglebound settled back on his heels. “Superb,” he said, blinking rapidly at her. “We have two guests to observe and comment, Unwin, so make sure you fill them both in on your research.”

Unwin’s eyes darted over to Harry and Malfoy before she nodded tightly. “Indeed, Sir.”

Higglebound made a small noise of approval before turning to face Harry and Malfoy again. 

“My head potioneer, Unwin, will be more than happy to assist you this morning,” Higglebound said. “Rowle and I consider ourselves co-founders of Concordia, although she really is the face of the movement. Nevertheless, I must consult her before we proceed any further with your little—er—tour of Concordia.”

“We’ve already had the privilege of a tour,” Malfoy said, a coldness in his voice that Harry hadn’t expected. “I was hoping for more extenside access to your potions facilities. Surely this isn’t the only one.”

Higglebound’s gaze hardened. “We have others, Mr Malfoy, closer to Magorian Lake.”

“Rowle told us they were potion production buildings,” Harry said, attempting to sound conversational rather than accusatory. “What Draco was hoping for,” he said, haphazardly patting Draco’s shoulder in what he hoped would be taken as a supportive gesture, “was a chance to see where the magic really happens.”

“That would be here, where the research is conducted, Mr Auditore,” Higglebound said, smiling obligingly.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “I was under the impression that you have potioneers from all over the world working for you, or was that just a nice bit of propaganda?”

Higglebound looked affronted, his nostrils flaring. “I beg your pardon, Mr Malfoy, but there was no propaganda about it. We do, in fact, have a few other research facilities but I’m afraid that you will not be privy to them unless Rowle and I decide otherwise.” He huffed in sharply before marching past Harry and Malfoy. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Harry glared at Malfoy but, with an entire room of people staring at him, couldn’t manage more than surreptitiously place a Tracking Spell on Higglebound’s retreating back as he marched down the stairs. As soon as he left, the room gave a sigh of relief. The cauldrons resumed their bubbling and the Maddens—the couple in the corner—broke out into nervous laughter. 

Before Harry could say a word to Draco, however, he had approached Unwin. She smiled in a slightly sympathetic manner and very discreetly placed her index finger to her lips.

Harry joined Malfoy at once. 

“Mr Malfoy and Auditore, was it?”

Harry nodded, watching her closely. Aside from pressing her finger to her lips, nothing in her tone or demeanour had indicated anything except utter professionalism. 

“Very well,” she said, motioning for the Maddens to join her at her work-bench. “As our head Officiator Higglebound probably indicated, you’ve been given permission to witness the final administering of the Colingo Magicae blood bond potion.” She turned to address the Maddens. “The usual anticipated side-effects of unequal transferring of magical ability and surges of restlessness will persist for about ten days, after which you will be free to leave the compound.”

The Maddens nodded simultaneously. 

While Malfoy watched the potion be prepared and poured for the Maddens to drink—he noticed two small phials of blood be poured inside the cauldron—Harry began walking around the room in what he hoped would be perceived as vaguely interested wandering. The room was extremely stuffy, the fumes making Harry sweat beneath his thick robes and clouding his vision as he tried to make out any distinguishable details about the room.

The writing on the parchment was too small to read and there were far too many ingredients to take an inventory, but something in the rhythm of the other potioneers—everyone besides Unwin—was unnerving. They were in tandem, synchronised; when one made an adjustment to their parchment, another would follow directly afterwards, before another did and, like a row of dominoes, they all followed. The differences in their potions set them apart but, on closer inspection, Harry saw that every potioneer was attending to a blue potion in a small, copper cauldron. It seemed that the other potions strewn across the desk—the very thing that he thought had set them apart—had been left completely unattended. It seemed as if they were purely for show. Or deception. 

“Harry,” Malfoy’s voice called calmly. 

Harry glanced upwards and saw that the Maddens had removed their outer robes and slid their shirts down to reveal their right shoulders. Harry approached them and, at the sight he was presented with, almost gasped. The couple’s shoulders seemed to be glowing from beneath their skin, a bright, pearly light emanating, blinking and then ceasing as though snuffed. 

Unwin made a noise of satisfaction before flicking her wand and sending the now empty caldron and phials into a sink at the end of her work-bench. She sighed heavily and wiped her forehead in what Harry took to be a rather dramatic fashion. 

“It is boiling in here, right?” she said, fanning herself rather dramatically. Her eyes focused intently between Harry and Malfoy, unblinking. “What I wouldn’t give to be swimming in Magorian Lake right now.” She gave a forced laugh, her eyes never leaving Harry and Malfoy, as though staring deliberately between them to communicate something. “I mean, it’s great to just sit by the water’s edge to see the building around the lake and everything, but I always think _submerging_ myself under the water is the fastest way to cool down, don’t you?”

Harry raised his chin slightly, searching her face. All he found there was a very deliberate earnestness that told him all he needed to know. She broke eye contact after he lowered his chin ever so slightly and turned her attention to the Maddens.

“Now, I really must insist you lot head on,” she said, looking between the four of them. “I know you’re just dying to hear more about our work here at Concordia, Mr Malfoy, but I’m afraid I’ve only been given orders to tell you this much so you’ll really have to get going now.”

Malfoy looked ready to protest but Harry knew better than to push this; he didn’t know what kind of surveillance was inside the room and whether or not any of the other potioneers would report Unwin for letting them stay any longer. And besides, she had already given them a clue that, despite their situation, Harry’s intuition told him to trust. 

“That’s not a problem,” Harry said following the Maddens out of the room.

Malfoy shoved his hand in his pocket and nodded at her. “Yes indeed, thank you for your time, Ms Unwin.”

“My pleasure,” she said, looking thoroughly relieved. 

Harry joined Draco at the top of the stairs and waited a moment for the Maddens to proceed ahead of them. 

“You’ve got dust on your shoulders, Harry,” Malfoy said, brushing his shoulders and leaning very close to Harry’s ear in the process. In a very tight, rapid voice he whispered. “She slipped me a piece of parchment and told me that Higglebound’s not who he says he is.”


	9. Juggling Smoke

They walked almost shoulder-to-shoulder along Bluebow Boulevard. Harry barely took in the surroundings, intent upon making it to Magorian Lake as quickly as possible, preferably unnoticed. The street wasn’t nearly as crowded as during their last visit, but there were still people lingering at street corners to chat, others cycling in pairs along the cobblestones and others swinging shopping bags from their arms as they strolled, all wrapped in bundles of cloaks and scarves caught by the breeze. 

It would have been a welcome sight, a peaceful scene complete with a light breeze and clear sky, but Harry couldn’t stop. His only thought, projected on a ceaseless loop, was that of Unwin’s apparent clue. 

Harry didn’t feel safe speaking openly with Malfoy until they had left Concordia’s grounds, but he knew that they couldn’t do that before scoping out Magorian Lake just too check if there was any indication that Unwin was telling the truth. Harry had shared but a silent, significant look with Malfoy but he knew that Malfoy must have followed his train of thought. 

By the time they made it to the edge of the vast, maple-tree-lined lake, they were both slightly out of breath. He could make out a couple, about a hundred feet away, laying on a picnic blanket but the perimeter of the lake was otherwise empty of other people. Harry would have stripped off his robes then and there and dived straight into the water’s depths to uncover exactly what Unwin’s hint entailed if Malfoy hadn’t placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. By the look on Malfoy’s face—an unimpressed smile and one raised eyebrow—he had anticipated Harry’s next move. 

“You’re telling me you passed your Auror training on your own merits, Potter?” Malfoy muttered. “With more nerve than brains it’s a wonder you haven’t got yourself killed yet.”

Harry glared. “What are you talking about?”

Malfoy sighed and let his hand fall. When he spoke, it was with surprising patience. “Don’t you think it’s curious that the place we’re apparently supposed to be looking to find more about Concordia is inside the lake which is surrounded by buildings.”

Harry didn’t have to look around him to know that Malfoy was right. Of course, this didn’t necessarily mean that anyone was watching them, but all the same, he didn’t want to take a risk when this clue could be so vital. 

“We’ll need to wait until tonight, when it’s dark,” Harry said. “A distraction on the other side of the compound could work, but if they find out we’re not there, there could be trouble.”

Malfoy nodded, apparently satisfied. “To yours or mine?”

*

“Why do you think he told us all of that?” was the first thing that Draco said as soon as they had Disapparated to the front step of Harry’s apartment, made their way up the winding staircase and shut the door with a satisfying slam.

Harry sighed and took his time removing his travelling cloak before throwing it onto the heap of clothes on the stool beside the front door. “Hard to say,” Harry said. “He enjoys relishing his own brilliance, maybe. Or he likes the idea of showing you that he’s an important figure in Concordia.”

Draco hummed, his eyes following the muddy trainers and Kneazle hair on the carpet of Harry’s cramped hallway.

“Could be both,” Harry mused, leading Draco down the hallway to the kitchen and feeling strangely self-conscious of the state of his apartment. “But if he had any sense he wouldn't have let slip half of what he told us.” 

“Unless he’s lying, but if he is then I can’t see why he’d bother,” Malfoy posited. 

“And that thing he said about being co-founder with Rowle,” Harry said leading Malfoy into the kitchen, “it doesn’t make any sense. How are _they_ really the ones responsible for Concordia?”

Harry levitated a pot of tea, two slices of treacle tart and two mugs to soar across the room onto the kitchen table where Malfoy had gingerly sat.

“Yes, it does seem unlikely,” Malfoy agreed. “And I think we can conclusively say that he’s not entirely in control of his actions given how much he told us. But it doesn’t look like the Imperius Curse to me.”

“No,” Harry agreed, “but there’s something not right about it.” 

He flicked his wand and a fresh sheet of parchment wriggled from underneath a pile of Teddy’s designated ‘art corner’, where a pile of dirty paintbrushes, felt-tip pens and empty Exploding Glitter boxes containers lay. The parchment raced across the room and Harry instructed the quill suspended above it to write a note to Robards, instructing him to gather a research team to uncover anything they could about Higglebound.

“I suppose Malachy Lynch can’t be discounted as the real mastermind behind Concordia, though,” Malfoy said. 

“Yeah, there’s a team of Aurors trying to track him but he keeps slipping through their fingers,” Harry said frustratedly, slamming his mug down with a little more force than necessary and sending some tea sloshing over the rim.

Malfoy went strangely quiet and Harry glanced up, expecting to see him wrinkling his nose or examining another item he owned with distaste. Instead, he found Malfoy looking at him curiously, his grey eyes piercing and a very slight crease between his eyebrows.

“What is it?” Harry asked. 

Malfoy’s cheeks turned a very delicate shade of pink. “I—it’s nothing important.”

Harry frowned. “No, tell me,” he insisted. 

Malfoy looked reluctant and didn’t quite meet Harry’s eye. “I never realised before how seriously you took your job.”

Harry felt slightly indignant but mostly taken aback. 

“I mean, I obviously knew that saving people’s lives was part of your Saviour agenda,” Malfoy hastened to add, “but I when I read about your decision to become an Auror in the _Prophet_ , I just supposed it was because you thought that was what you had to do but—”

“Not what I wanted to do?” Harry finished, ignoring the strange warmth in his chest that was vying for his attention.

“Yes,” Malfoy said in a voice Harry had never heard him use before. It was slightly reflective and very level, not motivated by hatred or frustration or coloured by Malfoy’s desperate attempt to maintain an impassive facade. It was honest and Harry found himself opening up, for the first time, without prompting. 

“It was what people expected, initially,” Harry said, finding that he couldn’t look Malfoy in the eye and focusing on his treacle tart instead. “I was young and didn’t have anything to do for once in my life. Voldemort was gone. It was like before that I had spent my whole life afraid of the future, knowing only that more pain and death was waiting for me, like a dark cloud just over the horizon. Always there. I could avoid it, look the other way, but couldn’t really make plans without it interfering. But then, after the Battle… it was like the cloud lifted and there was no path, no bright sky, no meadow to lay down in. It was just… nothing.” Harry scrubbed angrily at his hair and determinedly avoided Malfoy’s gaze. “So I just did what I thought I should, or what other people expected me to do.”

There was a gentle lull, broken only by a faint whistle of the wind, blowing his neighbour’s windchime. It was melodic and strangely enrapturing. 

“And now?” Malfoy asked. His voice was so quiet that Harry’s had to tear his attention from the sound of the windchime. 

Out of surprise more than anything Harry looked up to find that Malfoy had leaned closer in his seat and was looking at Harry, not like he was a wounded animal, but like he was a very rare specimen, or an ancient object whose powers he yearned to understand. 

“And now… I don’t know, really,” Harry said. The magnitude of the conversation hadn’t struck him yet, but he felt slightly overwhelmed by his own confession. “I’m happier. I hate my job sometimes, but I don’t think I could find any meaning or… fulfilment in anything else.”

“But you haven’t looked anywhere else,” Malfoy countered.

“No,” Harry said. “But it’s not just my job. I have more than that. I’ve got Ron and Hermione and Teddy.”

“And a Kneazle, clearly,” Draco said, nodding at the hair strewn across the mat beside the kitchen door leading to the small balcony and the small water bowl. 

Harry grinned broadly. “She’s not mine, actually. I’ve thought about adopting one, but she’s Teddy’s.”

Draco’s eyes widened with apparent recognition. “Ah, yes. Ralph, the female Kneazle.”

“You’ve met?”

“Unfortunately,” Draco said, though he was suppressing a smile. “Speaking of Teddy, I had been hoping to find time to visit him this week but that doesn’t look likely given the new living arrangements.”

Harry nodded a little sadly. Their trunks had been taken from them that morning by Higglebound and transported to their assigned property until the time they would receive their bond, though neither of them had any intention of going through with it. As long as their plan to locate the true secrets of Concordia at the bottom of the lake succeeded, Harry was hopeful that the operation wouldn’t last more than a couple of days. 

They had visited the property directly after the lake. It was a quaint cottage with a bottle green door and brimming flowerbeds. However, they had agreed not to use any of their belongings in the trunks on the likely chance that they had been tampered with or had Tracking Spells placed on them. Harry had managed to counter the Spying Spells placed in every room, most of which tracked the use of particular words, the spells they used and the degree of magic they performed. The work had been exhausting and tedious. Although Malfoy, lounging on the cream sofa with a small book in his hand, had been of no help, Harry couldn’t help but derive some satisfaction from his look of slight approval which, to Harry, indicated that he was deeply impressed. 

“We had better head back soon,” Harry said, nodding towards the darkening sky. 

Malfoy sighed and whipped his wand, sending the mugs, pot and crumb-strewn plates to the sink. Harry wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this and so deigned not to comment.

“Potter,” Malfoy said in a rather tentative voice as he clasped the front of his robes and stored his wand away. “You wouldn’t have a spare pair of swimming trunks, would you?”

*

By the time they had travelled across the moor and through Concordia to the lake, the sky was a deep indigo, with patches of grey clouds obscuring the moon high above them. Quietly, they made their way around the perimeter to the same spot they had visited that morning. Thankfully, the picnicking couple had since left and they seemed quite alone. 

Harry cast a couple of Detection Spells, but there didn’t seem to be any other couples taking evening strolls in the heart of winter. 

“What do you reckon?” Harry asked, turning his attention to the lake. 

“Difficult to say,” Malfoy said, surveying the edge as the water lapped gently onto the pebbles. “It seems quite deep, but that could be illusion magic. I brought Gillyweed just in case, but if this truly is the place we need to find to see what Concordia really are up to, then I can’t imagine they’d make access dependent on a magical plant.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I wonder where you got the idea of Gillyweed from,” he said through a grin. 

Malfoy looked slightly annoyed by this. “As the story goes, Harry, you had help for every Triwizard task so you can’t expect me to believe you came up with Gillyweed by yourself.”

“So what if I did?” Harry asked. “I still managed to come second in that task.”

“Thanks in no small part to your stupidity which, as I recall, Dumbledore perceived as heroics.”

The mention of Dumbledore’s name no longer left him with a dull ache in his chest, or a surge of indignation, but with a moment of pause to reflect. 

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “It was stupid, though.”

Malfoy was watching him closely. He had stopped pacing the edge of the water, the calming sound of the water rippling and leaves crunching underfoot the only sound suspended between them. The clouds above them parted and the moonlight struck a jagged pattern across the water’s surface. Harry’s attention was drawn from Malfoy’s face in an instant. 

“Alright,” Harry said a little louder than he had intended. The sound struck the silence and a flock of birds vaulted from the tree behind them, soaring and scattering.

Malfoy shot him a look that was mingled with disapproval and amusement. 

“The best way to find out is to dive in and cast a few Detection Spells,” Harry said, at a normal decibel level this time. “It would probably be best for you to stay here and keep a lookout and I’ll—”

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy interrupted. 

Harry sighed. “Look, I know you think that we have to do everything together but this part has nothing to do with potions. This kind of thing—it’s what I’m trained to do.”

“Be that as it may,” Malfoy said haughtily, “I still don’t think there’s any need for you to venture underwater alone. I’m not being held responsible for your idiocy.”

“Malfoy, this is how Auror partners work. We watch each other’s backs.”

“And how, pray tell, do you expect me to watch your back when I’m standing around here. And don’t you think it’ll look suspicious if I’m caught lingering by the edge of the lake at nine in the evening apparently alone apart from a pile of your robes?”

Harry clamped his jaw tightly and stared at the determined look on Malfoy’s face. They were standing surprisingly close together. Harry sighed roughly.

“Fine,” he said, “you can come, but you have to listen to me when I tell you to do something. I don’t know what to expect here and I need to know that I can trust at least to do what I say.”

Malfoy nodded stiffly.

Without another word, they both began to strip off their travelling cloaks and robes. Harry was far from prudish, but he was quite thankful for the dark shadows cast by the trees and the fact that Malfoy, too, seemed intent on avoiding his gaze. By the time Harry had stripped his clothes down to his swimming trunks, his skin had erupted in goosebumps and his knees kept knocking together. It wasn’t windy, but the air bore a bitter chill that swept over them.

“Ready?” Harry said, directing the piles of his and Malfoy’s clothes to reduce in size and soar into his pocket. He glanced up to find Draco standing two feet away from him, shivering, his pale skin taking an unearthly glow in the moonlight and wearing a pair of pink swimming trunks that he had very ungraciously accepted at Harry’s apartment. 

“I suppose,” Draco muttered. 

Harry grinned and, wand in hand, winced as he walked over the pebbles to the edge of the water. He paused and sucked in sharply as the water lapped around his ankles. It was icy-cold, seemingly numbing his feet and rendering them entirely immobile. 

“I thought you were a Gryffindor through and through, Harry,” Malfoy said, stepping beside him and letting out a low hiss as one of the waves splashed against their calves. 

Harry glared and, clenching his jaw, took four strides into the water until he was chest-deep. The slope was surprisingly steep. He caught Malfoy watching him in disbelief and grinned.

“Come on,” Harry said, waving him into the water. “It’s lovely. Could be the south of France in July, actually.” 

“Oh, piss off,” Malfoy muttered, lifting his legs in a strange jog and rubbing his arms vigorously. 

Harry laughed harder and dived beneath the surface. It was mainly dark but with curious patches of light in the distance, as though they emerged from the deep heart of the lake. He kicked downwards, wand suspended to provide light, until his hand touched the bottom, which was covered in boulders twice the size of him. When he resurfaced, Harry saw Draco paddling towards him, frowning.

“Don’t disappear,” Malfoy said angrily. 

Harry grinned. “Scared I’d been dragged under by a Grindylow?”

Malfoy looked like he was about to scoff, or argue, but he instead avoided Harry’s gaze and muttered, “Something like that.”

There was a strange twist in Harry’s chest at this and he found his neck snap towards Malfoy. Harry’s paddling slowed as he tried to decipher his expression. 

“Did you find anything, at least?”

Harry sighed. “Looks like there’s light in the centre of the lake but I could only see it from deep underwater.”

Malfoy nodded. “Well, let’s go before I contract hypothermia.”

They dived together and swam gracelessly—neither of them were particularly talented swimmers. Harry kept getting distracted by the patches of light whenever Malfoy swam through them, illuminating his silvery skin and putting the long, lean lines of his chest into relief. Every so often they resurfaced to catch their breath and for Harry to cast any Detection Spells, though he had no indication about what he expected to find. 

Harry pointed upwards and Malfoy nodded as they resurfaced for the tenth time, both panting heavily. 

“It’s like we’re not getting any closer,” Malfoy said, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Harry shook his hair, sending droplets of water all over Malfoy, who glared. 

“We should try to send an Entreaty for Entrance. Sometimes it’s best to make it obvious we’re here so that nobody questions us. If we’re caught it’ll be harder to say we just stumbled across the place.”

Malfoy huffed but nodded. He raised his wand hand above the surface of the water, flicked his wrist and muttered “ _Ecflagitatio._ ”

At once, Harry felt a cool sensation wash over him and a small shadow emerged from his chest, joining Malfoy’s and disappearing. Before Harry could cast Malfoy a sceptical look a Patronus chinchilla scurried over the surface of the water and opened its mouth, speaking in a throaty female voice. “Entrance admitted to Draco Malfoy and companion. Please hold the chinchilla’s tail as if she were a Portkey and prepare for a slight jolt.”

Harry reached out a hand and held the tail of the chinchilla, which felt as though he was grasping thick smoke. He felt Draco’s long, pale fingers curl over his own and tried to concentrate on breathing very slowly.

With a sharp jolt, Harry’s entire body jerked upwards and out of the water as the chinchilla soared skyward. Before he could even let out a yell of astonishment, however, the chinchilla arched gracefully, the movement caught by the moonlight. In an instant, he and Draco were plummeting downwards and towards the surface of the water. They dived five, ten, twenty feet, clinging desperately onto the chinchilla. Despite the depth, Harry’s lungs felt light and he seemed able to breathe normally. He chanced a glance at Draco only to find his eyes trained on Harry, mouth pressed into a thin line. He squeezed his hand over Harry’s ever so lightly. 

“There!” Harry said, finding that only bubbles were emitted from his mouth. He pointed frantically at the place where the chinchilla was darting—the very spot of light they had seen in the distance was growing closer. Draco’s eyes widened. The light seemed to exist independently of the water. Where the lakewater was dark and shaded, even murky in parts, the light was uniform in its brightness and seemed to entice Harry and Draco towards it, even without the chinchilla’s guidance. 

Before either of them could say anything, they were suddenly consumed by the light, as though caught in a trance. It winded between them, almost like it was composed of threads, and wrapped around the spot where their hands were joined over the chinchilla. Harry’s heart hammered in his chest with startling urgency.

There was a flash of light and Harry felt himself hurtle through tight spaces, down chutes, across planes, inside suffocating darkness. With another, gut-clenching twist and a groan from beside him, he and Draco stumbled into a warm, tidy office. Miraculously, they emerged completely dry. Harry blinked rapidly, adjusting his glasses with one hand and clinging to Draco to hoist himself upright. It was then that Harry felt Draco, who had been panting and clutching his side, go eerily quiet. Harry raised his head and dug his hand inside the pocket of his trunks, gripping his wand with all his might. Opposite them stood Malachy Lynch.


	10. Not Criminal

Harry’s first impulse was to send a Full Body-Bind Curse at Lynch, but he caught himself at the last second. If he bound Lynch, he could easily give their identities away and, given the supreme level of magical powers Lynch had, Harry wasn’t sure that he would be able to hold him for long enough to make it back to the Ministry. 

Thankfully, Draco intervened on behalf of them both before Lynch could spend any longer dwelling on his gaping mouth and half-suspended wand. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, stepping forward and grasping Lynch’s left hand graciously. “My apologies for the… less than dignified entrance. I must admit that neither of us knew what to expect.”

Lynch laughed good-naturedly. “Not an issue. I confess myself a little wary of the whole Patronus-Portkey business myself.” He looked at their bare chests and bright swimming trunks. “If I may?” He flicked his wand and Harry and Draco were instantly clothed in thick, woollen cloaks. 

While Lynch and Draco talked idly—and suspiciously calmly—about the merits of wizarding transport, Harry took a moment to take in the man that had eluded them for weeks and his small, but cosy office. 

Lynch was as tall as Harry, with artfully-styled ringlets hanging just below his ears and very red lips that he barely opened to speak. His accent was strong, but there was a slight hesitation to his voice that Harry couldn’t help pick up on. 

The office itself was unremarkable, but Harry took away two curious details about the place. They had most definitely left the boundaries of Concordia, and the fact that Lynch was in an office, rather than hiding out in the wilderness, half-starved, was very strange. There were supposed to be Aurors trying desperately to track him, but Lynch’s office bore all the signs of being located in England if the time of the clock—a Big Ben replica hanging behind Lynch’s desk—and the style of robes he wore were indicators. 

“Drink, Malfoy?” Lynch asked, glancing up at him. “Or for your friend—sorry, chap, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Auditore,” Harry said instantly, holding out his right hand in an attempt to force Lynch to comply. 

Lynch smiled a little too knowingly for Harry’s liking. “Afraid I can’t. My wand arm is still… mending.”

Harry nodded, hoping that his smile could pass for sympathetic, and shook Lynch’s proffered left hand. He shared a look with Draco as they followed Lynch out of the office. It was then that Harry realised they were in an apartment and a view he caught from a hallway window told him all he needed to know: Lynch lived in a central London apartment right under the Ministry’s nose. 

The place wore unmistakable signs of being lived-in; a couple of sofas and lounge chairs in the living room with blankets and Christmas lights strewn across them; a Christmas tree in the hallway with carol-singing tinsel and an angel atop the tree who sprinkled snow on the branches and conducted the tinsel with her wand; a photograph on the wall showing Lynch, Carina Wimmer, the Austrian delegate and Lynch’s accomplice in the IWC attack, and Rowle. All three were smiling and laughing, their eyes bright and smiles carefree. 

Lynch led them to the kitchen and removed a bottle of scotch from a cabinet, pouring three generous glasses for them and handing them to Draco and Harry. 

“So,” Lynch said, sipping his scotch warily and peering between them both. “I absolutely don’t mean to be rude, but how did you find me? I wasn’t aware you had joined the cause, Malfoy. We’ve been trying to recruit you for months but you’ll understand my surprise. I don’t get many visitors, you see.”

“I can imagine so,” Dracosaid, sipping his drink. He glanced ever so slightly at Harry, as though waiting for him to intervene. Harry was quite suddenly struck by the fact that Draco was worried. Or frightened. Or merely unsure of how best to proceed.

Harry cleared his throat. “We were tipped off. Unwin.”

“Oh, so you’re part of the resistance,” Lynch said, apparently momentarily astonished before a broad smile stretched his dark lips. “Excellent. I was worried for a moment I might have needed to modify your memories before sending you on your way back to Rowle.” He took a long sip from his glass. “Unwin’s a great girl. She’s been administering the wrong potion for weeks now and Rowle doesn’t suspect a thing.” 

Quite suddenly, he took his wand in his right hand and flipped it upwards before catching it expertly. “I was worried you two had seen through my ‘weak wand arm’ act for a moment there,” he said with a slight laugh. 

Harry’s heart was thundering somewhere in the region of his throat, but the rest of his body seemed tense and immobile. What in the name of Merlin was Lynch suggesting? The resistance? Faking his weak arm? Hoodwinking Rowle?

“I think Harold and I have been a little out of the loop,” Draco said, peering intently at Lynch.

“Well, naturally,” Lynch said. “You two have only just arrived, have you not? Nevertheless, it will be good to have a few extra eyes in the compound itself. Take it down from within and so forth.”

“Indeed,” Draco said, though he didn’t look any more enlightened than Harry felt.

“That photograph in the hall,” Harry said slowly.

“It’s one of the few photographs I have of me and Carina, even if… _she_ is in it,” Lynch said tightly.

Harry nodded, glancing sideways at Draco only to find him following the rim of his scotch glass with his finger, drawing out a low, ringing sound. 

“So, why London?” Harry asked, turning the conversation to something more tangible and understandable—he could analyse whatever Lynch was suggesting about Rowle later. “Surely the Ministry would have caught up with you by now.”

Lynch frowned at him. “How long have you been living in England for, Auditore?”

Harry felt his palms begin to sweat. “Not long. A couple of weeks. But my mother is British.”

Lynch hummed. “So you should be familiar with the operation of the Ministry of Magic Auror force, then.”

“Not particularly,” Harry said.

“Well then you should know that they are incompetent and corrupt,” he said roughly. “As soon as the Regulation of Auror Licences, Authorisation and Combat Powers Act was proposed, they started preparing for all the changes. Increased surveillance, new offices for data collection, clauses to abolish the accountability frameworks in place.”

Harry stood up taller, feeling a sharp wave of anger and resentment boil in his stomach. “I know that but—”

“You know that?”

“I mean I’d heard of some of the changes,” Harry amended quickly, clenching his jaw. “But what I mean is that—not all of the Aurors agreed with the changes.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt some of them thought the Act was one step too far. Anyone with a moral backbone, that is. The Harry Potters of this world,” he said, tipping his Scotch back. “But that doesn’t make up for the fact that everyone with a title to their name and gold in their pockets was making these decisions.”

“But the Act never got passed,” Harry insisted. 

“And who do you have to thank for that?” Lynch said, his face suddenly dark. He slammed down the glass on the kitchen table and then sighed. “I don’t regret it, but I’m sorry for what it cost.”

Harry had to bite his tongue to stop himself spitting out “12 innocent lives”, if only because knowing that kind of fact would be highly suspect. He saw Draco shift his position closer to Harry out of the corner of his eye. 

“Where is Ms Wimmer?” Draco asked, his tone striking a balance between curious and polite. 

“Leading the Aurors on a wild goose chase, I imagine,” Lynch said, his voice much more subdued at the mention of her, a small smile playing at his lips. “We take it in turns to create a new trail for them to follow. Keep them on their toes, you know.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be home soon, in fact.”

Harry placed his untouched scotch on the counter. “And Rowle? She’s never been here?”

Lynch let out a bark of laughter before his gaze returned to Harry’s and turned suddenly solemn. “Oh, you’re serious,” he said, frowning. “Well, of course she hasn’t been here. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” He sighed. “I’m quite certain Rowle has a contact at the Ministry feeding her information on my whereabouts. So, with me and Carina taking it in turns to lead the Aurors astray, we’re killing two birds with one stone. Rowle probably thinks I’m in outer Mongolia somewhere,” he said with a rueful laugh. 

Harry grinned, but it felt forced and he was quite certain Lynch saw through it.

“So,” Lynch said gesturing towards the sofa in the sitting room. “I gather Unwin didn’t tell you too much about the resistance movement within Concordia, then.”

Harry sat beside Draco on the sofa opposite the fire. He noticed the Draco seemed paler than usual, his hands folded together in a way that suggested he was struggling to remain calm. As Harry shifted his position to get a better view of Lynch lingering near the window, Harry very discreetly squeezed Draco’s wrist in what he hoped was a comforting way. Before Harry could register Draco’s reaction, or even consider why he had just done that, Lynch turned around, an eyebrow raised in anticipation of an answer.

“Oh, no,” Draco said hastily. “She merely told us to find you in the lake. She said you would explain everything about the… resistance.”

Lynch hummed. “Well, it’s a small network of people,” he said. “Unwin, Achebe, Vu and Flores. But they’ve all managed to gain Rowle’s trust and they’re all in charge of administering the blood bond.”

“What about Higglebound?” Harry interjected. 

“Nobody important. He’s under Rowle’s Imperius, we believe, but he poses no threat,” Lynch said. “But the four head blood bond administrators have managed to place most of the potioneers under their control and they’re making sure to give every person in Concordia the wrong dose of potion.” He grinned wryly and raised his right arm. “It interferes with the balance of magical powers and has some unpleasant side effects but it can be reversed.”

“So you’re putting these people through pain and messing with their magical powers?” Harry demanded, suddenly furious at the casual way Lynch was interfering with these people’s personal lives. He saw Draco shift to the edge of his seat, hand inside his pocket beneath the cloak.

Lynch coloured. “Consider the alternative!” he said gruffly. “An entire compound filled with people with unimaginable magical powers without reversal. It would be catastrophic. It would lead to war. Savagery. Annihilation.” 

“But there are hundreds of people in Concordia. Why are you letting this happen? Why not take on Rowle yourself if she’s the real problem?”

Lynch scrubbed a hand down his face. “You sound like Carina,” he muttered, only just loud enough for Harry to catch. “I wish it were that simple, but I’ve learned my lesson from the IWC fiasco. I can’t just march into Concordia and challenge Rowle to a duel only for it to end in more bloodshed. No, the best thing I can do is be patient and let our creation turn on her.”

Draco, who had been unusually quiet, looked up. “Our creation?”

Lynch frowned. “Why do you think I have that photo in my hallway? I was a founder of Concordia along with Rowle. I intended for it to be a place only for the two of us to take the blood bond and test our abilities. But she… had something different in mind.”

*

“I’d posit a guess he was inspired by Salazar Slytherin,” Draco mused, pacing around their cottage kitchen, fingers finding the nape of his neck every so often and curling the hair there. “It’s no secret the Lynch brothers were Slytherins. Aidan Lynch, his brother, was one of Slytherin’s most renowned Quidditch players,” he added at Harry’ questioning look. 

“What do you mean he was inspired by Slytherin?” Harry asked, levitating another log into the crackling fireplace from his position in the corner of the sofa. 

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Draco insisted. “A hidden spot inside the place of his own creation from which he could bring about its downfall. It makes perfect sense.” 

Harry glanced up, catching Draco twisting the hair at the nape of his neck again. Harry smiled. “Yeah, I suppose. The thing I don’t understand is how Rowle and Wimmer fit in with all of this.”

Draco nodded absently. Harry watched him pace again, the fire’s light cast aside by Draco’s long shadow. 

“Lynch seemed to be saying that he had originally planned to take the blood bond with Rowle before he left Concordia.”

Draco hummed in agreement. “Judging from the way Rowle has reacted every time Lynch is mentioned, I’d say they fell out before the IWC attack. But what does that make Carina Wimmer?”

Harry shook his head. “Rowle’s replacement, I suppose,” he said. “She probably heard about Concordia, or was recruited by Lynch after his fight with Rowle. And then they both launched the IWC attack.”

“Yes, I suppose it all fits,” Draco mused. 

“Before we can arrest them, though, we need to find out who’s to blame for Concordia. If we react too soon and take Wimmer and Lynch into custody then Rowle will probably get shifty and flee the country. And who knows what might happen to everyone in Concordia,” Harry said, trailing off. “We can’t afford a hasty arrest process.”

Draco let out a surprising laugh. “Oh, Merlin, Potter,” he said, gasping over his laughter. “You truly have changed. ‘We can’t afford a hasty arrest process’? What happened to action first and consequences later? Or have a few years with the Aurors utterly reversed your instincts?” 

Harry tried to suppress a grin but couldn’t help it at the sight of Draco’s gleeful expression. 

“I trust my instincts, alright?” Harry said a little defensively, once Draco’s laughter had subdued. “But this case is different. It’s… fragile, I suppose. But once we can find proof that Concordia was Rowle’s creation and that Lynch wasn’t involved in making the cult that it’s become then we can divide this into two separate investigations. Then we arrest Rowle for illegal magic, importing illegal potions ingredients, coercion and acting as a criminal accomplice. And we can arrest Rowle and Lynch for international terrorism, Auror evasion and due process disruption.”

“I do love it when you go into full Auror mode,” Draco said sardonically, although there was a faint blush in his cheeks that Harry couldn’t help noticing. 

Harry found his gaze shifting to the merrily crackling fireplace. “Listen, Draco,” he began, feeling slightly uneasy but determined to communicate his thanks to Draco nonetheless. “I just wanted to say that you were really good today. You didn’t panic, even when it might be expected. I wouldn’t have expected that from someone who’s never been through any kind of Auror training before. Especially in the presence of a murderer, pretending that you were on his side through all of this.”

Draco’s face was very blank but his eyes were earnest and wide. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. I entertained the Dark Lord himself in the Manor doing the exact same thing. Pretending I wasn’t repulsed. Pretending to be unaffected. Anticipating what he wanted or expected of me.” He dropped his gaze and roughly cleared his throat. “You don’t have to thank me, Potter. I volunteered for this, remember?”


	11. Benignitas

The pub, The Niffler’s Hoard, was crowded, a heady smell suspended in the air which seemed to seep into the dark wood-panelled walls. Raucous laughter, shouts of greeting and the sound of smashing glass filled the air. Without turning behind him, Harry knew that Draco—even through the Polyjuice Potion—wore an unimpressed expression. Nevertheless, he ploughed ahead, weaving through the throngs and smiling, nodding at people he recognised. In their usual corner were a group of about fifteen people, most of them Aurors Harry worked with and a few others—like Ron, Ginny, Blaise and Hermione—mutual friends of many of them. 

“At last, Potter!” McNeil called from where he was sprawled across one side of a booth. He had charmed his pint of mead to suspend in mid-air and pour into his mouth whenever he opened it. 

Everyone’s conversations seemed to halt at his arrival and, instead of the usual greetings, most were surprised by his presence. 

“Where’ve you been, Harry? I thought you’d been sent on a long-term case abroad. At least, that’s what everyone else has been saying,” Nora-Mae Comer, McNeil’s new partner and Harry’s replacement, asked. 

“Er—I was. Still am, in fact but Robards needs me to show my face in public to avoid suspicion,” he said before looking meaningfully at Ron, Hermione, Blaise and Ginny. “This is my partner for the case.”

“Ah that Mystery Potioneer!” McNeil exclaimed, bounding to his feet and shaking a very reluctant Draco’s hand. “We meet again.”

“Indeed,” Draco said. “At least we managed to shed our last disguises.”

“I see that,” McNeil said, grinning and patting Harry’s cheek where a thick beard had been the last time they had entered the Ministry together in disguise. 

“How are you, Harry?” Hermione asked, making her way over to him with a stern expression. 

“Fine,” he said, kissing her cheek. “We have a lead,” he muttered into her ear, getting a mouthful of hair in the process. 

She pulled back and made significant eye-contact with him. “How long?” she mouthed.

“Days,” Harry said. 

He and Draco had contacted Roberts at the Ministry and their sole task was to gather evidence which proved that Rowle acted alone in building the Concordia compound so that the Aurors would be able to keep her for questioning with no chance of bail. If they found that Lynch—a known terrorist—was somehow involved, they would have to open a separate case of possible coercion on his part, which might result in her bail. Roberts had left them in no doubt that their priority was finding sufficient evidence as swiftly as possible. 

He was barrelled into a hug from Ron and quite soon was catching up with him and the ever-escalating success of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Every so often, he found his eye wandering to where Draco was standing stiffly, talking to a tipsy McNeil who seemed insistent on maintaining a conversation with him, or Blaise. 

Harry accepted a Firewhiskey from a tray levitated towards their table and soon found himself indulging far more than he might on a normal night out. Perhaps it was the stress of the case, or the fact that Draco was with him, or the fact that he hadn't seen any of his friends in weeks, but Harry was soon feeling rather light-headed. His inhibitions had apparently left him somewhere between his third and fourth drink. 

Despite the thick moustache and large nose of the man Draco had Polyjuiced into, Harry suddenly felt wildy invested in checking on how Draco’s night was proceeding every couple of minutes.

Although taking the night off had certainly not been on the agenda for Harry and Draco, with the end of their case within sight, Robards had insisted that Harry show his face in public. The _Witch Weekly_ editors were becoming restless with the lack of news, apparently, and hadn’t been satisfied with the argument that he was taking a ‘well-deserved break’. Roberts had confided that he couldn’t disclose that he was working undercover on a case for obvious reasons of security so appearing in public, it seemed, was Harry’s only option.

Draco had spent the last hour or so sipping gingerly on a Butterbeer and talking with Blaise, whose hand hadn’t left Ginny’s waist the entire time. Looking at them both, each caught in an entirely different conversation but somehow still connected, Harry felt strangely lonely, even in the company of Ron and Hermione.

“Harry, are you still with us?” Hermione said, slightly impatiently.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Hermione gave him a partly endeared, partly harried look. “I was telling you about the fact that I might be hiring a secretary to help me with the work at the Department for Inter-Species Relations and the Promotion of Habitat and Employment Welfare.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked. “I thought you loved doing all the work yourself. You used to complain about having to re-do any job you gave to your old secretaries.”

Ron gave him a knowing look. “Don’t remind me. You actually had more work to do when you had that first secretary, Elbert. Bloody nightmare. She’s even brought these rolls of parchment home and let me tell you, they had an _attitude_. Hit me over the head if they were put in the wrong pile.”

“I know, Ron, but this will be different,” Hermione insisted. “We’ve discussed this. I just want someone to understand the right way of doing things for when…”

“For when what?” Harry said, looking between them. Quite suddenly a barely suppressed grin had spread across Ron’s face and even Hermione had blushed deeply. “What?”

“Well,” Hermione began, her voice slightly higher than usual in a way that suggested she was about to tell him something about feelings or relationships, or keen to break some very important news. “In case I have to leave my job for a short while because, well—Ron and I are having a baby!”

“What?” Harry spluttered. “You’re having a—you’re? Oh, Merlin. Congratulations!” Quite suddenly, the weight of the case and his worries about where he stood in relation to Draco seemed to dissipate.

Hermione beamed at him and Ron looked close to tears, his smile so broad and his expression so joyous that the War might never have happened.

“You’re the first to know, of course,” Hermione said. “I’m three months along, so I think it’s safe to tell my parents and Ron’s family—I’m shocked Ron hasn’t blabbed already, to be frank—but we wanted you to be the first to know.”

Her smile was infectious and he pulled her into a tight hug, getting the second mouthful of hair of that night.

He cleared his throat, then, feeling the shock of the news and the sheer amount of alcohol he had drunk that night culminate. He raised his half-empty glass of Firewhiskey and toasted to the first Granger-Weasley in a voice that carried slightly more than he had intended and led to quite a lot of shushing from Hermione.

He looked up and saw most of their group staring at them, but it was Draco who caught his eye. A puzzling expression on his Polyjuiced face, somewhere between amusement and concern. Harry didn’t quite know what to make of it.

*

It was later that night, after swallowing a Hangover Potion he had thankfully thought to bring with him, that Harry truly allowed himself to consider Ron and Hermione’s news. Walking through the streets in Concordia, Draco at his side and the harsh wind carrying them towards their cottage near the lake, Harry thought about their smiling faces and intertwined hands. Even after they had started dating after the War, he had never felt excluded or jealous. They had made a remarkable effort to include him, to keep him updated, to give him priority. But he couldn’t help but feel like that was more for his benefit than theirs. And he hated feeling like a burden, or an impediment.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice called above the wind. “That was a Hangover Potion you took, wasn’t it? Not some kind of Depression-Inducing Potion?”

“Yeah. Er—the first one,” he muttered.

“For Salazar’s sake, Harry, what’s got into you?” Draco said impatiently, just as they turned the corner of the drive.

Harry applied the usual Detection Spells to the cottage, but proceeded inside even before he was finished, Draco hurrying after him.

“I’m fine. Nothing.”

“Something happened and it clearly wasn’t nothing,” Draco said surprisingly gently. He toed off his leather boots and hung his travelling cloak up so comfortably that he and Harry could have been living together in the cottage for years.

Harry threw his cloak on the back of the living room sofa and pulled off his dragonhide boots one-by-one before collapsing back onto the sofa. He pushed hair—which always seemed to get especially tangled by the wind—off his face and sighed.

“You don’t have to— Look, it doesn’t matter,” Harry said, looking up to find Draco swallowing some kind of potion which he had confessed sped up the Polyjuice removal process. Harry watched as Draco grew about four inches taller, his nose shrunk, skin paled and hair lightened. 

“Well, you may not think it matters, but if it’s affecting you this much it’s obviously bothering you,” Draco said, striding over to the fireplace and leaning against the mantelpiece. He directed his wand towards the stack of logs and a roaring fire erupted there. Draco sighed. 

“It’s… it’s good news, I’m just being stupid.”

“Granger is pregnant?”

Harry jolted upright. “How did you—”

“She wasn’t drinking and Weasley looked far too pleased for his own good,” Draco said calmly. “And I, along what was likely half the pub, heard you toast their child.”

Harry shook his head, sighing to himself and trying to ignore Draco’s smug smile.

“So,” Draco said, his tone more hesitant. “Why are you put-out about that?”

“I’m not put-out,” Harry said firmly. “I’m happy for them. I want what’s best for them, I just—”

“Also want what’s best for you?” Draco said quietly. He looked imploringly at Harry, legs crossed and the picture of relaxation if his expression wasn’t so earnest. “That doesn’t make you a bad person, you know. Any news—good, bad, depressing, live-affirming—it all causes us to reflect on our own lives.” 

Draco pushed himself off the mantelpiece and made his way over to the other side of the sofa Harry was seated on. Quite abruptly, Harry felt his pulse race and felt an inexplicable desire to move further along the sofa, closer to Draco. 

“I sometimes think,” Harry began hesitantly, “that, given everything, my life has turned out good. Great, even. But sometimes, when I have time on my hands, or when I take a turn, or I’m not distracted, I think about how my life could have been different if I had never got this.” He pointed at his scar, idly brushing the hair off his forehead. “How I might never have taken this job; how I might be able to sleep through the night without waking up shouting and panting; how I might have a family now and not feel constantly afraid for my friends.”

Draco looked directly at him, utterly unabashed, for a long moment before replying. 

“Yes,” he admitted. “You might. But you might not either. And dwelling on what could have been is never going to make you feel better. All it does is reaffirm what you want to change about your life now.” He sighed very discreetly, but Harry caught it. 

“For me, I’ve had to accept that I can’t change my mistakes. None of them. The entire wizarding world knows my role during the War. How my father was a blood supremacist and a coward, and how I wasn’t much better. People always expect the worst of me, so all I can do is expect better of myself.”

Harry watched the way Draco was looking imploringly at him, his head bowed slightly and eyes trained on Harry’s. A dancing tongue of flame from the fire was reflected in his grey eyes and, somehow, it felt wonderfully fitting.

“I’ll never be able to make them change their minds about me, not really. My past is always going to follow me. But, at least for myself, I can choose to do the right thing, even when nobody’s watching. Or nobody cares.”

“I care,” Harry said. 

The two words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even consider the repercussions. After the initial, paralysing moment of shock, Harry realised just how sincerely he did care. Did that make him a decent person or a fool? Harry’s perception of Draco had been utterly inverted in the couple of weeks they had spent together. Draco had shown himself to be highly capable, intelligent, surprisingly compassionate and perceptive. He was also infuriatingly ever-present in Harry’s thoughts. 

Over the weeks spent in each other’s company, Harry had learned the shades of Draco’s character; his flaws, his desires, his fears. And, slowly, his disinterest shifted to care, unqualified and whole. This process may, in part, have been due to their situation—Harry had needed to learn more about Draco to be able to trust him. But over time, his reasons for listening, for observation, had changed too. He listened to hear, and looked to find, because he liked Draco. And that thought in itself was far scarier an admission than one Harry had ever confronted before. 

When Harry looked up, he found Draco looking steadily at him. Harry heard himself swallow and tried to keep Draco’s gaze with at least a fraction of the stubborn defiance he felt.

“You’re so unbelievably typical, you know,” Draco said matter-of-factly. He almost smiled. “Of course you would try to care. Because I’m pouring my heart out to you just so you can take five seconds to think about yourself and your own life for once, you just have to turn the table around and feel the need to sympathise with me.”

“That’s not— I’m not sympathising with you!” Harry insisted, pushing himself closer to Draco on the couch. 

“Don’t lie to yourself, Harry,” Draco said, suddenly colder, a tense line across his shoulders. “This is easy for you. Saving people, finding something redeemable in someone is easy for you. Don’t tell me that’s care. That’s instinct.”

“So what if it’s instinct?” Harry said angrily. He hated the way Draco was retreating, closing himself off and dismissing the mere thought that Harry could feel anything more than sympathy for him. “I care about you. I care when you try to do the right thing. I care that you’ve tried to make up for your mistakes for the past five years. I care that you’ve become the best Potioneer in Britain. I care that you’ve had to pretend the whole time we’ve been at Concordia. Pretend to do the thing that everyone expected, pretend to be the person you’re not. Because I know that you’re not that person.”

Draco stood up very sharply, glaring down at Harry as though he had accused him of something wicked, or mortally insulted him. Draco opened his mouth but he seemed entirely overwhelmed, too consumed by his emotions to vocalise them. Draco’s eyes told Harry of his shock, his fear—the threat he felt Harry to be.

“No,” he said finally. “I’m not that person. But just because you don’t see the default ex-Death Eater everyone else does is not the same as caring. It’s not, because caring is not what you do. You save people, Harry. You protect them, defend them, act on their behalf. You’d run inside a burning building for just about anyone.” He scoffed, aggressively running a hand through his hair. “Just because you’d do that for me doesn’t mean you care.”

“Doesn’t it?” Harry demanded. He shoved himself to his feet, standing so close to Draco that he could see there was barely an inch in their height difference. Could see that Draco had thick, long eyelashes that were barely visible they were so pale. Could see that his eyes were clouded and burning with something akin to passion. Could see that his lips were rosy and wet from where he’d pulled his lower lip between his teeth, as Harry knew he often did whenever he was nervous or inhibited. 

“Because I think it does,” Harry continued, feeling his voice rise inordinately despite how closely they were standing. “I think it means I can _see_ you, Draco. See you for who you actually are. See you for someone who’s accepted his fate but doesn’t want to believe it’s true. See you for the person you are—someone who’s brave, and still caught in the past, and trying desperately despite everything.” He let out a trembling breath, his chest heaving with the effort of letting the words spill out of his mouth as though he had rehearsed them for hours. “Someone who’s afraid to let go so that he can let himself live.”

“And you’re not?” Draco shouted, his eyes alight, arms raised. “You’re not any of those things? It took a pregnancy announcement and half the Firewhiskey in The Niffler’s Hoard for you to realise there was something missing in your life. So what’s it going to take for you to understand that I can’t look at you for too long in case you don’t look back at me. That I can’t stand the fact that this situation forced us together and I spent the entire time trying to keep my distance only to have you insist on spending every waking minute by my side. And I couldn’t say know because, fucking Merlin’s maiden, I _like_ you!” 

Harry stared for longer than was strictly warranted. His heartbeat drowned out every noise apart from Draco’s short breaths. The intensity of his gaze—intransigent, not yearning; impassioned, not desperate; and wholly unexpecting—was enough to silence Harry. But he didn’t need words to reassure Draco. Words would never suffice. His emotions, his strength, his pain, his desire was all more than he could untangle. So he complied with his feet, leading him towards Draco, with his arms wrapping around Draco’s neck, with his lips pressing against Draco’s to stop himself from trying to voice something he never could. 

Draco’s lips were softer than he expected. His mouth was hot and heady, his lips gentle but persistent. Draco’s fingers dug into Harry’s back, dragging up and down in long, languid movements. The breaths against the crook of Harry’s necks were hot and shallow. A nose dragged up his neck, a kiss pressed just below his ear, stubble against his cheek. Harry wrapped his fingers around the soft hair at the nape of Draco’s neck and pressed his forehead against Draco’s, breathing deeply and looking intently into his eyes. The colour was half-obscured by his own shadow but Harry could see the fervent gleam, the beam of firelight catching what little space there was between them. 

“Harry,” Draco whispered, his breath hot against Harry’s skin. 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as Draco pulled him closer, their chests pressed together. He traced his tongue over Harry’s lips, eyes never leaving Harry’s, as though daring him to change his mind. His gaze was insistent and Harry complied, ignoring the slow, tentative pace of Draco’s movements and pressing hot, fervid kisses to Draco’s lips. The glint in Draco’s eye—that shadow of concern—disappeared and Draco responded, returning his raptness with barely-suppressed groans that seemed to punctuate the space between them. 

Harry kissed restlessly, with the kind of desperation he never knew himself capable of. Greedy lips chased his own. A broken moan escaped Harry’s lips as Draco pulled away suddenly and sucked at a sensitive spot along his jaw. Harry dragged his fingers through Draco’s hair, pulling softly. And despite his restless body, despite the precariousness of their situation and their vulnerability, Harry felt a serene calmness overcome him.


	12. Kagandahan

“You’re sure she’s not here?” Draco said for the third time that minute. 

“Yes,” Harry said, warding the front entrance, concentrating intently on drawing the correct pattern so that their presence wouldn’t be detected. “Robards had a team put together to find whoever was sending Rowle information about Lynch’s whereabouts. Or supposed whereabouts,” he added, thinking of the London apartment. “Remember Dominic Fawley, the wizard in Case Management who gave us the devices for this case? Turns out his loyalties were a little more flexible than we thought.”

Draco grinded his teeth. “So the moral is to never trust anyone with a trap door beneath their office desk, I suppose. I had a bad feeling about him from the start, you know.”

Harry hummed. “I’m sure you did.”

Draco made an affronted sound but pressed on nonetheless. “So what about him?”

Harry sighed, completing the set of complex unlocking spells and hearing the familiar click of the door as Rowle’s office door swung open. “Robards had him arrested last night and made sure the news made headlines so Rowle was sure to see it. She’s on alert; tightening security, interviewing some of the potioneers she thinks might be involved in the leak. Trust me, she’ll be busy all day today. Or, at least until I call for reinforcement and she’s arrested.”

Draco made a satisfied sound. “And then we can finally get out of this Merlin-awful place.”

“I thought you were starting to like our cottage,” Harry said, shutting the door behind Draco. He cast a basic Locking Charm; they wouldn’t need long to find evidence that Rowle was acting alone in building Concordia, or at least that she had severed ties with Lynch. 

“Since last night, I suppose,” Draco said vaguely before winking at Harry and sauntering over to Rowle’s desk and rummaging through the files strewn across it.

Harry made his way to a shelf above her drinks cabinet, where a few trinkets were stored; a postcard from Santa Monica from her brother, spare change—Muggle and wizarding—in an ornate bowl and a couple of spare quills.

“Nothing but accounts and information about some of the people in Concordia who are residents but haven’t received the full blood bond. We’re listed.”

“Just personal possessions here too,” Harry muttered. 

He was about to turn to start on the place where a filing cabinet had emerged from the wall the last time they had been in Rowle’s office, when the drinks cabinet caught his attention. The bottle of Scotch was the exact same as the one Lynch had been so fond of. Except this one wasn’t filled with Scotch, but with what appeared to be rolled-up parchment. 

“Draco,” he breathed. “Come here. I think I’ve found something.”

Draco was by his side in an instant, lifting the Scotch bottle from out of the cabinet and shaking it until every piece of folded or rolled parchment had fallen onto her desk. Each of the twenty or so letters began with, _To my darling Malachy_ and ended with, _Forgive me. Come back to me. Yours, Damoclina._

It appeared that every letter was either unsent or returned unanswered. What was clear judging from the dates of the letters, however, was that Rowle had begun writing them weeks before anyone suspected Concordia to be a thriving, cult-like environment open to anyone moving in social circles where blood bonds were the ultimate sacrifice and the most desired one. 

“So, if she was writing him letters begging him to ‘come back’, then that must mean she made all of this by herself. And got Higglebound involved along the way.”

Draco made a noise of affirmation but it was distant.

Harry turned on his heel to find Draco sitting at Rowle’s desk, one of the letters clutched in his hand.

“Draco,” he said gently. 

“She loves him, Harry,” Draco said. “It makes so much sense! Lynch was supposed to take the blood bond with her. It was only supposed to be something between them, but she wanted to expand it. So he left and she created this organisation. This entire space was supposed to be for them alone, to practice their magic away from the rest of the world. Alone.”

“But he took the blood bond with Wimmer.”

“Exactly. He took this life-altering bond with someone and left her. He put his political agenda above her, and she forgave him. His terrorist agenda. His violence.” There was a strange tone to Draco’s voice that Harry couldn’t help but notice.

“Draco,” he began slowly. “I know what you’re thinking, but you have to understand that there is no similarity. None.”

“Isn’t there?” Draco said, folding the letter and returning it inside the bottle of Scotch. “Blind forgiveness in the hope of finding something that isn’t really there.”

Harry frowned and, with fierce determination, knew that he needed to quell the voice of doubt Draco carried with him about their very new, tentative relationship. He kneeled beside the chair and held Draco’s hand between his own, caressing the skin there but looking directly into Draco’s watchful eyes.

“Listen to me,” he said firmly. “We met Lynch. He hasn’t repented. He killed and seriously injured so many people at that conference. And he’s interfering with the lives of everyone in Concordia. He’s hiding in London, enjoying a lavish lifestyle with Wimmer, drinking Scotch, manipulating Rowle and Concordia from the safety of his flat and being entertained by the thought that Aurors are out there, thinking that they’re tracking him. He doesn’t regret what he did. He hasn’t faced Azkaban, hasn’t tried to change his life, hasn’t recognised his actions. Rowle is a fool for still loving him.” 

Harry gave Draco a small smile. “But you and me, we’re different. You did terrible things and were involved with terrible crimes. But you know that’s what they were. You regret it every day and you’re doing everything in your power to change the person you were, to bring about some kind of positive change in the world, even if it put your reputation in jeopardy and your safety at risk.”

Draco looked at him for a very long moment. “You’re a fool too, you know, just for different reasons,” he said, before he pressed a soft, closed-mouthed kiss to Harry’s forehead. 

*

After that, time seemed to pass very quietly and discreetly. Over the next week, everything seemed to unravel, as though the entire Felix operation had been one tightly-bound knot that needed one twist to untie it. 

Rowle was caught instantly. After managing to separate them to weaken their combined powers, Harry and a group of five other Aurors managed to bind Lynch and Wimmer and bring them to the Ministry of Magic for a court hearing. All three were sentenced to terms in prison, with Lynch and Wimmer maintained in prisons on opposite corners of the planet and their magical powers monitored constantly.

The next couple of months saw Draco leading a research team to discover the nature of the only true blood bond between Wimmer and Lynch. He was also invested in visiting the residents at St. Mungo's to reverse the effects of the blood bond potion that had been tampered with by Unwin and the rest of Lynch’s Concordia spies. They, along with Higglebound, were all sentenced to shorter periods of imprisonment. Draco was curiously private about his dedication to ensuring complete reversal of the tampered potion in the Concordia members and only when probed by Harry did he admit that he saw his own mistakes in their folly; blind trust even despite the warning signs and pain justified in the name of glory or the greater good.

Harry took the following month off, partly to recover from a deep gash he had sustained to the thigh during his duel with Lynch in the bid to capture him, and partly due to Draco’s insistence that he take time to evaluate his career and set aside time for himself. The first week left Harry agitated and restless, but after some time, further visits to the Mind Healer, afternoons spent and weekends spent with Teddy, and evenings (and nights) spent in Draco’s company, Harry began to appreciate the freedom the time off allowed him. And the fulfilment—as well as a heavy dose of snide comments and sarcasm—that Draco provided Harry was the precise thing Harry never knew he had been missing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


End file.
